


Battlegrounds

by darthneko



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-11-19
Updated: 2001-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-07 23:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthneko/pseuds/darthneko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bonds forged in the heat of battle and after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Looking for a Cure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of comfort after battle brings out a jealous streak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes:** After the SeeD field test in Dollet.

The sunset was starting to fade, the lingering rays of dusk turning the waves to liquid white capped gold. Squall breathed out slowly, tilting his face up to the spatter of cool spray that arced across the bow of the ship as it cut over a swell. The smell of wet brine was heavy on the breeze, erasing the lingering scents of gunpowder and blood and rancid fear.  
If he closed his eyes, it all started to seem a bit unreal.

And then an automatic shift of his weight as the deck rolled beneath him would bring back the sharp stab in his ribs and set his head to aching, like a sullen reminder that no, it was all only too real. Somehow, he had always imagined he'd be elated; his first real battle, the final test. One step away from the goal of graduation, wound up and waiting to find out if the past years had been in vain or if he had what it took to make SeeD rank in one fell blow.

But there hadn't been anything to be elated over. Only adrenaline, so strong he thought his heart might burst, and the bitter taste of fear in his mouth. He'd stopped thinking before they'd set foot on the Dollet beach, stopped doing anything but reacting long before they'd reached the city square. Automatic, like a machine, every move against every foe one he'd learned by rote in training and could have done in his sleep. But it hadn't been training, and he'd found that the feel of his gunblade cutting short a man's scream was something entirely different from battling off a hungry beast.

It wasn't horror, Squall decided. It wasn't even fear, not afterwards, though there had been more than enough during the mission and more than he'd ever anticipated in the frantic flight back to the beach with an all too real death nipping at his heels. It was... numbness. He'd expected to feel something as the SeeD ships streaked back towards Balamb, bringing the final judging closer with each second. Something strong, something to reflect how much he'd looked forward to this. But he didn't. He just felt numb and tired and sore, and the comforting oblivion of his own bed seemed to beckon far more temptingly than finding out what his final score in the field test had been.

The sound of footsteps behind him made him tense, the intrusion unwelcome. A glance back, darted beneath one elbow, showed standard boots and uniform trousers and he winced, gritting his teeth.

Zell dropped down to squat beside Squall, elbows resting easily on his knees. The blond's hair was more disarrayed than usual, damp and half slicked back, as though he'd run wet hands through it. His trademark devil-may-care grin was in place, but it was, Squall thought, a bit paler than it had been earlier in the afternoon and it didn't seem to brighten the other man's blue eyes any. His cheeks had a pink tinge to them and he smelled of soap, but there was a thin trail of sand encrusted blood along the edge of his jaw that had escaped scrubbing.

"Thought I'd find you here," he remarked glibly, but in a quieter tone than the one of over-exuberance which had been one of the many things which had driven Squall from the ship's interior to seek solitude on the deck. "You alright?"

There was no use ignoring him. Zell was nothing if not persistent. "Fine," Squall said shortly, turning to look back out over the water again. A sudden suspicion made him glance back. "Quistis sent you looking for me?"

"No." Zell grinned, the expression almost feral. "She's back down below, ripping Seifer for abandoning the squad."

Something like a small spasm shifted through Squall and the ache in his head redoubled its efforts, focused squarely between his eyes. "And you're not watching?" he asked, almost surprised to hear his own voice steady, even if it was flat.

The blond made a face. "They're loud. Thought I'd come up here and see how you were doing."

"I'm fine," Squall repeated firmly, hoping the other man would take the hint and go. Instead, Zell just rocked slightly on the balls of his feet, swaying with the dip of the deck.

Uncomfortable, Squall stole another side long glance at him. The blond was looking out across the waves, his seemingly habitual grin faded and a small, thin line drawn between his pale brows. Seen in profile, the cheek that faced Squall devoid of the distinctive tribal tattoo that graced its counterpart, Zell looked younger than his years. The breeze tugged at the spiked fringe of his bangs, sending them whipping across his forehead.

"Think we did alright?" Zell asked, but it didn't really sound as if he cared. For a moment, in the other man's voice, Squall heard the echo of his own numbness.

"We did what we were supposed to," he answered, the words tasteless in his mouth.

There was silence for a moment and then Zell gave himself a little shake, shrugging slightly. "Yeah. Guess so." He straightened, rolling his head back across his shoulders to the accompaniment of a series of crackling pops. Pushing himself to his feet, he held out a hand. "Come on. You can't sit up here forever. Come on back downstairs, get cleaned up. You look a mess."

Squall shook his head. "No. Later."

Zell groaned. "You are so stubborn! Come on!" Reaching down, he grabbed Squall's elbow, urging the other man up.

The sudden twist as he instinctively jerked away sent a stab of bright pain through Squall's ribs, turning his breath into a choked off gasp as he clutched at them. Zell let him go at once, dropping back down to crouch beside him as he reached out to steady Squall.

"I thought you said you were fine," he snapped. "Close mouthed idiot... no, sit still, let me see!"

Another stab of pain robbed Squall of breath and he subsided, gritting his teeth as Zell flipped back the edge of his uniform jacket to run light hands across his ribs. The other man had a surprisingly competent touch, blunt fingertips probing lightly. The small frown was back, Zell's eyes half closed as he gently probed the tender spots that drew gasped curses from Squall. "Busted up your ribs, didn't you?"

Squall swallowed a curse as Zell's hands found a particularly sore area. "On the beach," he said shortly. "They're just bruised."

Mention of their hell-bent flight back to the rendevous and the horrific mechanical beast that had dogged their steps all the way drained the color from Zell's face. Lips pressed thin, he dug his thumb into the point he had found, making Squall bite back a muffled scream. "That's not 'just bruised'," he said sharply. "Dammit, you should have said something."

"It's nothi... ah! Fuck!"

"Would you sit still?" Zell demanded. His tone was short but his hands remained gentle, warm against Squall's ribs through the thin material of his shirt. He cupped them there, across the worst of the throbbing pain, eyes closing.

"No," Squall insisted. "Don't bother..." But it was too late, the stream of Zell's soft whisper carried away on the breeze, the natural warmth of his hands swelling, augmented, as it sank through flesh and bone to soothe away the pain. Squall held his breath, then slowly released it, unwillingly relaxing as the healing spell eased spasming muscles and gently set fractured bones and torn flesh to knitting.

Zell had settled to his knees, eyes still closed in concentration. His hands painted slow streaks of warmth across Squall's ribs, from breastbone to hips, the absence of pain leaving its own sort of relieved pleasure in its wake. Squall caught his lip between his teeth, tasting the metallic tang of blood as a half scabbed split reopened.

They had both cast the same spell easily a dozen times that day alone. On themselves, on each other, on Seifer or Selphie or Quistis; hasty things gasped in a moment snatched during a fight, sudden rushes of warmth tossed in passing to bolster a faltering step or an attack hampered by a wound. They'd done it without thinking. It felt different, Squall found, with Zell's hands actually on him. Brighter, more intense, setting his skin to tingling and the warmth seeping in to pool in his stomach.

Zell leaned forward slightly, hands slipping around to skim lightly up Squall's back beneath his jacket, easing the hard knots of muscle that had formed across his spine. Squall let his own eyes fall shut, his breath slipping out in a soft sigh as he arched into the soothing touch.

The other man sat back, hands drifting across the breadth of Squall's chest and upwards, warming the taut lines of his shoulders and throat. Strong fingers slipped around the nape of his neck, threading into his hair as they drained the tension from his aching head. It was only as they curved around, a callused thumb stroking light across his cheek, the warmth seeping towards the dull pain between his eyes, that the tension surged again. Squall pulled away, reaching up to grasp Zell's wrists and push them back. "No."

The other man frowned. "It's going to scar."

"So? It's just a cut," Squall said flatly. "You don't waste a spell on something like that."

Zell's eyes narrowed. He twisted his wrists away, breaking Squall's hold. "Why not?" he demanded. His lips curled, something bitter and completely unfamiliar crossing his expression. "Because _he_ gave it to you?"

Squall jerked slightly, the tight tension flooding back down his spine, erasing all of the relaxed warmth the spell had spread. "What do you know of it?"

Zell snorted. "Don't be stupid. The talk was all over the Garden before we left. Quistis called him on it in front of your class."

"It was a training accident," Squall ground out, teeth clenched.

"Riiight," Zell drawled. He looked away abruptly, his fist coming down hard against his thigh. "That bastard doesn't fucking deserve you," he hissed.

Stunned, it took the other man a heartbeat to gather a response. "That's none of your business!" he shot back, stung.

Zell glanced back, expression hard. "Of course not," he said bitterly. "It's none of my business if Seifer carves his fucking initials in your hide. It's nobody's business what that sadistic bastard does, or what you let him do." He uncoiled like a striking snake, without warning, swift and deadly. Squall reared back, one hand brought up to guard, but Zell only caught his wrist, his fingers bruising hard. His blue eyes, seen close, held a fire deep within their depths that had nothing to do with his usual lighthearted exterior. "But maybe I'm making it my business," he said, the words breathed soft between them.

Squall drew an angry breath but what he meant to say never emerged. Zell's lips covered his, swallowing his breath and a muffled yell of outrage. The blond was stronger than he looked, his grip on Squall's wrist remaining firm, fingers dug into flesh as he drove the kiss home.

To Squall the moment seemed almost unreal, insubstantial, even as the startling clarity of it burned into mind and memory. The warm press of Zell's mouth against his was almost gentle. The other man drew against his lowe lip, suckling, and the light scrape of teeth across flesh as he let it go made Squall pull in a slow breath.

Zell's tongue stroked, warm and wet, across his lips. He tasted sweet, of honey and just the hint of cinnamon, and Squall found himself opening to the taste. The feel of Zell's tongue sliding against his own in a slow caress made him shiver, the warmth of the other man's spell reawakening to pool, thick and heavy, in his veins.

Dazed, it took him a long moment to find his voice when Zell drew away. The words came to him dimly, the defensive protest sounding hollow even to his own ears. "He wasn't the only one who drew blood."

"No," Zell agreed, the quiet word brushing warm against Squall's face. "But you were the one who ended up in the infirmary." He let go of Squall's wrists, reaching up to cup his palms against the other man's cheeks. The fire burning deep in his pale eyes was still there, more serious than Squall could ever remember seeing him. "You might have hit him by accident, but you can't tell me that son of a bitch didn't mark you on purpose."

Squall didn't have a reply to that and finally dropped his eyes, feeling his stomach twist, Zell' words leaving a sour taste in his throat. The other man leaned forward again, his lips ghosting softly across the cut that streaked Squall's face from brow to cheek. "Squall," he breathed softly. "When he does that," and the tip of his tongue licked out, drawing a brand of wet fire along the new scab, "just remember _this_."

It was harder than the first kiss, as though Zell might leave his own mark in the bruise upon Squall's lips. Squall shut his eyes, breathing in the scent of soap and Zell's own skin and the hungry press of the other's mouth on his. When Zell pulled away, his hands dropping with one last caress against Squall's cheek, he found he felt colder for the loss.

"He doesn't fucking deserve you," Zell repeated, the whisper hissed angrily. Squall kept his eyes closed, hearing the rustle of fabric as the other man rose and the ring of boot heels against the deck. When he opened his eyes once more, he was alone.

Pushing himself slowly to his feet, he reached out to grasp the railing, leaning against it as the wind whipped his hair against his face. Unthinking, his hand rose to brush against the trailing edge of the cut across his cheek, then dropped, fingertips pressing lightly to his lips. Squall's eyes turned out towards the gathering dusk and the lights of Balamb, shining bright against the last lingering glow of the sunset, but nothing in either offered an answer to the unvoiced things inside of him.


	2. The Art of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irvine gets a crash course in Zell's philosophy of war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes:** Galbadia, before the assassination mission.

In victory, he almost glows.

I shouldn't be looking, but I can't help myself. He didn't fare any better than the rest of us; he's sweaty and bruised and singed, there's blood - not his - splashed across his gloves and arms and more blood - which is his - trickling down his cheek from a cut across his forehead. He's wiped his hands across the sides of his jeans, leaving dark stains, and his hair is wilder than ever and crackling with leftover discharges of static. But it doesn't matter - on him, none of it matters. Because he _glows_. Wild and untamed, it shines in his eyes and lights up his face with the almost primal joy of life and victory. To him, this is the ultimate high.

He turns and I guiltily look away. Beside me, for one moment, Squall catches my eye. There's nothing there - like polar opposites, light and dark, he is everything Zell is not. Cool and calm, he wipes down the edge of his gunblade, frowning slightly as he runs a light thumb across it before sheathing the weapon. His dark eyes, on mine, are the eyes of the perfect soldier - there is no elation there, no vibrant emotion, only the quiet satisfaction of a duty done. He regards me silently, only unbending enough to nod slightly. His tone isn't meant as encouragement, just a matter of fact statement. "You'll do better next time."

I can feel the blood rush to my cheeks. Angrily, I turn away from them both. The spent shells of the Valiant clatter against the rocky ground as I shake them out, my hands automatically slipping fresh ones into the chambers. Even that feels different, though, as if I hadn't done it a thousand times before, and my hands are shaking, my fingers clumsy. It takes me two tries to get the last one seated right and I'm sure I must be furiously red by the time I slam the stock back into place.

I botched this one. Badly. And there's just no excuse for it.

The blood souls had caught us by surprise. Ugly things - twice as tough as they look, and nothing but pure appetite with the teeth to match. I hate them, and the area around the Garden is infested with them. Can't get from there to the train station without running into at least one of them. I'll go through rounds of ammo on the fucking things - riddle them with holes and it still takes them forever to die.

But Squall was in a hurry, and when the direct route started taking too long he opted for another. He's the leader - we do what he says, no questions asked. I had been reloading when I saw him drop back and gesture for Zell and I to do likewise. I had thought, for a moment, he meant to try to run - I could have told him it was pointless, the smell of blood on us would have brought others out from under every rock for miles around.

But that wasn't at all what he had in mind. Zell had known it; they fought like one, cued with hand signal or the jerk of a head, no words needed. I was the third wheel, unfamiliar and unused to all of it. But _especially_ to this.

It had been one solid, fluid motion, done in the blink of an eye. Zell had drawn back, pausing, and in that moment I had seen the glow begin, the light coming into his eyes. Between one breath and the next he had moved again, surging forward like a shot out of a gun, and I had fumbled the cartridge I was loading like some first year weapons student while I stood there with my mouth hanging open and my eyes ready to fall out. But I think, maybe, I could be excused just that once - I'd never seen a Guardian Force in the flesh, so to speak, and the last thing I had been expecting was for Zell to disappear right in front of me.

Galbadia doesn't use GFs. They're deemed too unpredictable and too dangerous - we learned about them in class, saw a few videos, so I at least knew the theory behind it all. But who wants to rely on something in battle that has a mind of its own and fucks more with _your_ mind than most drugs do? But Balamb Garden uses them, and I'd started wondering how much of those rumored side effects were true the moment the Headmaster had told me my new mission.

I'd found out, alright. The moment I walked into the midst of a group of achingly familiar faces who looked at me blankly with the eyes of complete strangers. They didn't know me. Not even a glimmer of recognition at my name. I was nothing and no one to them because they didn't _remember_.

Which might have gone far to explain my reluctance when Squall insisted I take one of the beasts. I had a gun, I was a sharpshooter, this was an _assassination_ mission for crissake - what did I need one of those fucking things crawling around in the back of my head for? But his decision was final, and I had tried not to flinch too hard as Selphie had cupped her hands around my temples and, with a comically serious expression on her face, transferred one of her junctions to me. In the end it'd taken all my courage not to pull away as her hands had flashed hot, almost burning, and a dull roaring rushed through my head.

A moment of dizziness, and then it had been over. I was still there, and still me... memories intact, and not even a headache to show for it. I had thought maybe the junction had failed but Selphie had flashed a bright kittenish grin and patted my shoulder. "Take good care of him!" she'd warned, joking.

It hadn't made me feel any better, but with no real symptoms of anything wrong I'd been able to put it out of my mind. Until those damn blood souls. Until Zell proved, in graphic detail, just what it was we were so negligently carrying around in our heads.

It was, beyond a doubt, the most astounding thing I had ever seen. Beautiful and terrifying, all at once. Zell had faded before my eyes, like a breath of smoke dispersed into the wind, and in his place rose the flames of the phoenix. I didn't have a name for it or anything to compare it to - too bright for the eye to look at, huge and towering, a bird of pure light and crackling electricity. The hair at my nape and across my arms had been on end, static flashing in air that smelled of burnt ozone as the creature reared up, pinions flared. It had struck with the deafening crack of thunder, a flare that had burned black across my eyes and an explosion that had knocked me down on my ass, deaf and blind with my ears ringing.

The Garden's right. And "too dangerous" doesn't even _begin_ to sum those creatures up.

By the time I had recovered one of the blood souls was down, a little charred lump of flesh and teeth and good riddance. But the remaining two had still circling and Squall had been down on one knee, winded and dead pale against the white ruff of his jacket. Zell had been back and beside him and I had seen his lips moving. Cure spell, but in the meanwhile the blood souls were worked into a frenzy by the smell of blood and nearby death. There hadn't been time for thinking, or anything else. I had emptied my shotgun into one that was making a bee-line for Zell, knocking it back even if it didn't take it out. And then, while I had automatically reloaded, I started scrambling through my own head for the thing that would hopefully kill both of the remaining beasts before any more showed up to join the party.

They made it look so fucking easy. In the videos, in the lectures... and Zell. Dear god. So bloody fucking _easy_. Junctioned in, plugged right into the mind, ready and waiting - bullshit! I found it easy enough; the mantras for accessing a junctioned magic worked just as well for a GF. But instead of some passive energy just waiting to be directed I laid mental hands on a living _thing_ \- a thing with a will and direction of its own and the moment I had touched it I was damn sure of one fact: it _didn't_ like me.

The blood souls and the others had all faded out a bit before my eyes. I had seen the thing Selphie had bequeathed me from the edges of my vision, all flames and fire and burning hell - shit, that girl always did have a warped sense of humor. Damn near burned my ass with a firecracker once and laughed about it. She probably thought that thing was _cute_.

It had a name - Ifrit. And it let me know with no uncertainty that I was fuck all nothing to it, a bug, and it didn't give a shit what I wanted. Sephie probably had it eating out of her hand, damn it, but I was a greenhorn and nobody had asked it if it wanted to be shoved in my head and it wasn't happy about it. Well, what the fuck made it think I was any happier about it?! It's in there making a nest for itself in the middle of my memories, shoving stuff out of the way to make room for itself... I had been swearing, the sweat pouring down my neck and back like I'd just run a marathon, and that stubborn bitch of a beast hadn't been going to budge a finger to help us out unless I shoved and pushed it all the way.

And I was fucking well going to show it who was boss. Irvine Kinneas is _not_ whipped by his own weapons and that's what that thing was - a weapon, a really big fucking ugly fire bomb. It could damn well get over itself and act like it.

Dimly, I had seen what happened then past the veil of flame that thing was throwing at me while I wrestled with it. Zell's spell had gotten Squall up but he still looked more green than anything else, like his gunblade was probably heavier than anything he should have been trying to lift. Zell, bless him, never seemed to even slow down - he had been there, in front of Squall, when one of the blood souls charged them. He had whirled and met the thing in mid-leap, his heel smashing down on the ugly thing. I had seen it's blood splash across the muscles of his calf. He had followed the motion through in one easy twist, fist and then elbow and blood splattered everywhere, all before his feet hit the ground again and the blood soul collapsed on the dirt beside him.

The last beast had been insane with the smell of blood. It had swarmed at Zell, all teeth and gaping maw. I'd seen him twist towards it and had a half second of trying to untangle my mind from that damn GF so I could act - and found _that_ was fucking harder than they'd ever told us too. By then, it had already been too late; Zell had flung up his hands to catch the blood soul, keeping its teeth from him, and in the next moment the lightning had flashed and crackled in flares around his fingers. It had knocked the blood soul back in a blast of ozone, leaving its body smoking on the ground next to the rest of its pack.

And fuck if Zell hadn't done all of it.

With the relative quiet in the minute after that I'd been able to shove the GF back into the corner of my head, throw closed the door and lock it shut and get back to being _me_. I felt wrung out, tired and filthy. Squall had sank down to the ground and I'd felt the dim rush as he cast another cure spell and the color started to come back to his face. And Zell... Zell hadn't been able to sit still. Bouncing on his heels, rocking back and forth, his hands wiping across his jeans and over his hair and anything just as long as he was moving somehow, the electricity still sluicing off of him in sparks and crackles.

And then Squall had to make that crack about doing better next time and my mood turned straight into sour. I'd fucked up - he didn't need to rub it in. I shut up, shove the Valiant into its holster, and start walking. There's still a way to the train station and unless we want a repeat performance we'd better move fast. Squall lets me take the lead.

It's a fucking quiet and filthy trio who get to the station to meet up with the ladies.

* * * * *

The hotel in Galbadia is nice. Squall and the others head straight for our rooms - I'm wondering if those rings under his eyes are always there, or if he's feeling the strain more than normal. He needs rest, in any case.

Me? Resting is the last thing I feel like doing. Every minute is bringing this mission closer, and I don't want to think about it. Or about that afternoon, or any of it. Which is why midnight finds me in the mostly empty hotel lounge, with a shot glass beside my hands that the bartender is nice enough to keep filling occasionally and I've lost track of how many times.

Comfort in the bottom of a bottle. Might as well keep the image intact, eh?

It's not helping much. I'm too wired, too hyped up on adrenaline to let the alcohol do its trick. I'm a little foggy, but that's all. I'm still more than aware enough to know when Zell walks in.

He doesn't see me at first. He'll looking at the lounge stage with its piano and an odd expression on his face. I don't want to talk to him, but he's between me and the door. No getting around it. I knock back another shot and set the glass down, motioning for another. Maybe he'll be smart enough to take the hint and not intrude on a man and his drinking.

No such luck. Bullheaded little bastard. He walks up to the bar and takes the stool next to me, resting his elbows on the counter. I feel his eyes on me as he watches the bartender fill the shot glass again and for one moment the drink catches up to me - I stifle a laugh, because suddenly the only thing I can remember is his voice when we were all children together and the oft repeated phrase of "I'm going to tell Matron!" God, he had been such a whiny kid. Desperate for approval, and willing to welch on all the rest of us to get it. The boyscout rule keeper, never a toe out of line.

But now... no Matron to go to now, and I'm not even going to start thinking about that. I toss back the shot glass again, letting the whiskey burn down my throat to chase the thought away. Zell's gaze is still on me and the slightly drunk part of my brain wonders if now he runs off to take accusations like that to Squall instead.

But he doesn't say anything, just signals the bartender for a glass of his own. The man's becoming a favorite of mine - big and silent, he just plunks a glass down for Zell without any question and fills it from the same bottle I've been working my way through. And damn if Zell doesn't just pick it up and toss it back with a flick of his wrist, though he comes up coughing after it goes down.

Sucking in a sharp breath, he pushes the glass out for a refill. "Shit, that's strong."

"Straight up whiskey," I tell him. It's the devil that puts the next words in my mouth, I think - I can't help digging just a little, to see if any of that wide eyed boy is still there somewhere inside. Have we all really changed that much? "Leonhart will skin us if we're hung over tomorrow."

Zell grins sharply. Picking up his glass, he clinks the edge lightly against mine. "So don't get hungover." He takes the second shot better, though he's still a bit breathless afterwards.

I realize my mouth is open and shut it with a snap. Shit, maybe we really have changed. Grown up, become other people. Sephie hasn't changed, I don't think she's realized she's grown up at all, but the rest of us... Quisty's become serious, all somber and by the book. Squall's grown into a real shut mouthed bastard. I know I'm not the boy I was. And Zell...

He still glows. Hours afterwards, cleaned up, showered, fed... he still glows with the rush of it. It's like a low hum around him that keeps him moving, keeps him always in action. He's tapping his feet against the rungs of the stool, the empty shot glass sliding back and forth on the counter between his hands. It's like Selphie's energy, but not as innocent. Hers is sheer childlike enthusiasm. His... it's more like the wound coil of a spring, a high from victory that just never quite wears off.

There's nothing left of the boy who was always afraid to do anything without permission. He's found his own feet, and I'm realizing I don't know this man at all.

"You nervous?" he asks suddenly. His eyes are on his glass, not on me, and his voice is lower than I've come to expect from his outbursts. "About the mission?"

I don't know what to tell him, so the truth slips out instead. "Hell yes."

Zell just nods, shrugging a little. "I get wired. Couldn't sleep at all before the SeeD test. Spent half the night doing laps around Garden."

It's the most civil exchange we've had. Amazing what late night hours and a bit of apprehension will wring out of a man. He'd been pissed at me on the train, after I'd exploded and pulled my little prima donna act. I'd been so damned rattled I'd let it get out of hand, poured it on thick, anything if they'd all just stop staring at me without any recognition in their eyes. Zell had been glaring at me when we got off at the Galbadia station, and we'd ignored each other the rest of the evening. It had almost been funny, how Squall spent half the time putting himself between us, as though afraid he'd have to break up a fight.

Zell seemed mellower now. And that little admission of his own nervousness could almost be taken as a peace offering. I just wish I knew what the hell to do with it.

In the end, it's more than half the drink talking. I've been turning that damn battle with the blood souls over and over in my mind all evening, trying to learn from it. Trying to figure what I did wrong, so I don't fuck it up again next time. And with him sitting there my mind just won't let go of the image - that one instant as he'd lunged forward and faded out and the brilliant electric flare of the Guardian Force he'd so effortlessly called up.

"How do you do it?" I demand abruptly, half turning towards him. At his blank look I spread my arms, mimicking the wingspan of the thing he was junctioned to. "The bird, this afternoon. How the hell do you do that?"

"Oh! You mean Quez?" It's my turn to look blank and he chuckles. "The Guardian Forces. Look, don't worry about it. Squall's right - it gets easier. You've just got to get to know 'em, get 'em to trust you."

"Get it to trust me?" I am not believing this line he's feeding me, and my voice is rising - I'm probably drunker than I thought. "I don't trust it!"

He grins, but it's not anything malicious. "Look, you're thinking about it all wrong. They're not 'its'. They're creatures. You work with them - it's not like just pulling out that gun you carry around. They're their own people, you know? You can bring 'em around by force - lots do - but if they trust you and like you they'll take good care of you."

My mouth is hanging open again but I can't help it. It's just so... so _not_ what I'd expect Zell to say, and the realization that I don't know him gets pounded home again. "Like your bird?" I challenge.

"Quezacotl," he corrects. It's the strangest word I've ever heard but it rolls off his lips easily and in some strange way it sound like the thing, like there's a leftover taste of lightning on the syllables. "We've been together for a bit. She used to be Squall's, but he gave her to me. She's saved my ass lots of times already."

Fuck, he makes it sound like Balamb students trade those things around the way the rest of us trade cards. Hell, maybe they do. I scrub a hand over my face, hard, and push my glass away. It's probably time to quit. I look at Zell and tap a finger against my forehead. "This _thing_," I tell him, emphasizing the word, "doesn't like me. And I sure as hell don't like it. Give me a gun any day. They don't talk back."

He's laughing now and I'm about to get angry. But he waves me back, shaking his head. "No, sit down, Kinneas. I'm not laughing at you. Selphie gave you Ifrit, didn't she?" I don't say anything but the look on my face must have been enough. Zell laughs again, quietly. "Shit... should've warned you. He's a real bastard. Gave Seifer a run for his money too."

Saying that name seems to sober him down a bit and when he looks at me again he's serious, the grin wiped off his face. "Look, Irvine... if you're going to be with us, we need you able to fight. What if you miss your shot, eh? What if we do go head to head with the Sorceress? You need more than just a gun. Use whatever it takes - that's what being a SeeD is all about, right?" Shrugging, he leans back on the counter, one ankle hooked across his other thigh. "All I can do is tell you how _I_ do it. The way I look at it, it's like getting and keeping any other friendship. There's an art to it. You can't expect them to just leap in and take the hits for you if you're a stranger."

Like he'd leapt in and taken the hits that afternoon, I found myself thinking. Whatever it takes... "Love and war," I mutter. Scooping my hat up from the counter, I slip it back on. "I'll work on it," I tell him firmly.

"That's all any of us do," he tosses back. Fuck, who knew late nights and a few drinks would turn Zell into a philosopher.

I slide off the stool and hesitate. "Zell." It's the first time I've actually said his name and he turns towards me, surprised.

I shrug a little. "Thanks," I tell him awkwardly. "I'll keep it in mind."

He smiles then and it brings all of the light back into his face. Squall's a classic beauty - I'll bet he breaks hearts right and left without ever realizing it. But Zell's something else entirely. He's not pretty. Cute, maybe, in a puppy-ish sort of way. But with that light in him, the glow in his gaze and electrifying every move he makes... it's like he wears the fringe of his GF around him, a little piece of Quezacotl that shines lightning through his eyes. And when he's not putting on the surfer boy act he's pure grace in motion, all condensed strength and sliding silk, like a big untamed cat.

I'm stopped in my tracks, looking down into his face, and I catch myself wondering if he purrs like a cat too. Fuck, I bet he looks good in SeeD uniform. I am _so_ much drunker than I thought I was.

Zell gives my shoulder a light shove. "Go get some sleep, Kinneas. You've got the big part tomorrow." He mimes putting a gun to his shoulder and I try not to shiver and force a fake smile.

"Yeah." My voice sounds thin, even to me. "Drinks are on me. I'll pick up the tab in the morning."

He brightens. "Hey, thanks!"

"No problem. Just don't get hungover drunk. I'm not gonna save your ass from Leonhart if he wants a piece of it over a stunt like that." It's a weak comeback at best. To my amazement, a faint flush spreads over his cheeks. He doesn't look away, though - there's a fiercely proud spark in his eyes and he jerks his chin up, daring me to say anything about it.

Well, who the hell knew. Trust me to put my foot in it. Looks like Squall might be squad leader, but somebody else is holding the leash. Good for Zell.

I mumble a hasty goodnight and leave him there. I can't help but pause at the stairs to the lobby and look back, though - he's talking animatedly to the bartender now, and I hadn't been able to get the guy to say a word all evening. Fucking incredible. He's like an electric whirlwind that just washes over you. Squall must not have stood a chance.

I just hope he knows how damn lucky he is. Zell has grown into one singular work of art. I'm not going to worry too much about whether that fire breathing bastard shacked up in my head likes me or not... but Zell's right, there's some relationships you've just got to work at.

And if Squall drops the ball on that one, I don't think I'd mind being there to pick up the pieces.

I am _far_ more drunk than I thought I was. Whistling softly to myself, I start up the stairs and back to our rooms.


	3. Sacrifices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tantalizing glimpses of memories bring doubts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes:** Trabia Garden, after the missile attack.

The late afternoon had brought more snow with it, drifting down in flurries of white that dusted, wet and cold, across broken stones. Selphie was thrilled.

It's spring, for gods' sake. And it's _snowing_. Selphie is the only person I know of who could grow up in this and think it was fun. I would have been beyond miserable.

Maybe Trabia just breeds a certain type of toughness. Selphie, under that cheery exterior of hers, is strong as hells in a pinch. Her friends and classmates - all of the SeeD at Trabia Garden - they're all the same. Squall offered to take those who wanted back to Balamb. They universally, one and all, turned him down. The place was a ruin of scorch marks and tumbling down walls, but they'd stay. They'd fight to keep it and rebuild it.

I wouldn't have been that loyal to Galbadia. Trabia... Trabia just has a spirit to it that Galbadia didn't. Even Balamb doesn't. Out of all of them, it's a damn shame this one had to be hit. If it comes to a fight, they would have been the ones to have there.

The sky was full of flat grey clouds, so low it felt like I could reach up and touch them. Trabia Garden was a ragged silloughette against them, squatted on the ground at the base of snow capped mountains. If I squinted I could try to imagine what it must have looked like when Selphie lived there, full of light and warmth. What it would have looked like airborne. I couldn't really picture it.

The front court was a maze of cracked stone and tumbled rocks, rough beneath my boots. The others were inside; we would be leaving soon but Selphie had goodbyes to say and Squall wanted to make sure Trabia had what it needed. Quistis was in the back, helping to dismantle the hulk of that dead missile - I never would have figured her to be that good with explosives but she had been telling them just what to unscrew and take off. Guess we've all got some surprising talents.

Which left me at loose ends. Best I could do was to stay out of everyone's way. It was quiet outside, the sort of hush that comes with falling snow, nothing stirring anywhere except for the sound of my boots on the pavement.

And the hollow sound of a basketball hitting stone and rebounding, slow and rhythmic, echoing sharply around the broken walls. I turned up the collar of my coat to keep the snow from my neck and wandered my way out into the court.

He was sitting on the edge of the fountain, almost absently bouncing the ball between his feet. Drop, then catch on the rebound, spinning it over in his hands before dropping it again. The snow was turning everything around him wet, the flakes melting as they touched the stones. He had to be freezing - I was feeling the cold through the leather of my coat and that jacket of his wasn't near as thick. Last time I had seen him he had been inside, helping the Trabia docs with the minor wounded.

"Hey," I said softly, dropping down to sit beside him. The stone was damn cold, even through coat and jeans.

He just nodded a little, showing he knew I was there. His hands and the ball had a rhythm to them, steady as clockwork. Bounce. Catch. Bounce. Catch. Square hands, blunt fingered. Steady. I realized, a little startled, that he didn't have his gloves on. I had never really thought about it but it might have been the first time I'd ever seen him without them.

Bounce. When the ball rebounded to his hands he flipped it over, spinning it easily between his fingers. "Do you..." he started, then broke off, shaking his head. His breath billowed in a pale cloud of steam against the drifting snow. "Do you remember," he started again, his voice tight in his chest, "when Matron caught us playing ball in the house?"

I let my own breath out slowly. I knew what it cost him to say that; I could feel it myself, hard and cold and tight inside me and it was all I had been feeling for days. "Yeah, I remember," I told him quietly. "Hells, Zell, I think I was the one who brought the ball inside."

He laughed, a little haltingly. "That's right. And Squall nearly broke Matron's vase with that rim shot off of the mantle... she was so angry. I just knew we were going to get in trouble."

"You were always telling us we were going to get in trouble," I reminded him with a forced grin. He ducked his head; I couldn't tell if he was blushing or not.

"Gods, I was a whiny kid," he muttered and tossed the ball back down, almost savage, the sound of it against the pavement sharp and loud. Bounce, catch. I rested my elbows on my knees, hunching my shoulders some against the cold.

"How could you do it?" he asked after a few moments. He wouldn't look up, his head down, eyes fixed on his feet. "I mean... you _knew_. You remembered. And we... none of us did. Didn't have a clue. How could you stand it?"

I shrugged, though he couldn't see it. "Wasn't easy," I admitted. "Had me on needles for the first day or so. I kept wanting to say something - anything - but... hells. There was enough to think about then."

"The mission," he said flatly. Bounce, catch, and that time he held onto it, his hands tight around the surface of the ball, knuckles stiff and white. "Gods. Fucking hells. Matron. I don't... this can't be happening." His voice broke off, half choked, and he dropped his head down to rest his forehead against the ball. "How could you make that shot? How could you even try?"

If I closed my eyes the only thing I could recall was the hard recoil of the sniper rifle against my shoulder. The smell of oil and metal and the wrenching feeling in my gut as I forced myself to squeeze the trigger. "Because I had to," I muttered. "Because we have to. It's what we're here for."

Zell was quiet for a long moment. "This is fucked," he whispered at last. "Damn it... Headmaster Kramer... Cid... do you remember? He was always gone. And then, when he would come back, Matron would be so happy. And he always brought us stuff, toys and things..." His voice was choked. "He handed me my diploma. And I didn't remember. I didn't remember a single fucking thing."

"He knows," I offered a little weakly. "I mean, he knows why. He made the decision that Balamb would use Guardian Forces - he had to know what it would do."

"Maybe." Zell straightened, brushing back his bangs. They were wet with the snow, blond locks starting to fall into his eyes. "We don't... we didn't keep them junctioned all the time, you know. Not usually, not when we were younger. I mean, you train with 'em a lot, to get used to it... but you don't get them assigned to you until you're about to graduate." His glance towards me was fleeting. "But now... fuck, Irvine, it's only been a few weeks, but Quezacotl... Every time I think about unjunctioning her, I just feel sick. She's always there, where I can feel her, just reach out and touch her... I don't want to not have that. But now I keep thinking what it's doing to us..."

He broke off, his voice lowering, soft and quiet in the gathering dusk. "The first time... The first time I junctioned her. Gods. I swear, it was like the world was in black and white before and I'd just never realized. Then she was there and everything was in color, bright full spectrum color, just incredible..."

I had to shake my head. Zell caught the gesture from the corner of his eye and laughed softly, self conscious. "Not like that for you, huh? Maybe you just need the right one. We had to go through all kinds of exams before they assigned a GF to us - psych and physical and everything. Make sure there was a good compatibility." He grinned, a little lopsided. "I don't think Ifrit suits you."

"Hells no," I replied feverently. "You don't have to tell me that! But until something better comes along... You said it when we were talking before. If we need them to do this, if we need them to save the people we love... then it's worth it. Whatever it takes. If you can protect your family with it, then isn't it worth any price?"

The ball dropped dully from Zell's hands, bouncing off the pavement, and that time he didn't catch it. It fell again, rolling away to come to rest against a piece of broken rock. "That's the thing, isn't it?" he muttered, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. "They're not my family."

I didn't know what to say to that. I'm not sure there's anything I could say. Out of all of us, Zell was the only one who had family. Who was adopted into a home that _worked._ He has relatives and a place to call home outside of the Gardens and when I looked at him, there in the fading afternoon light, I could remember how proud and pleased he was when I asked about his grandfather's antique guns hung on his bedroom wall and how he got in my face when I dared to touch one. "Zell..."

"Well, they're not, are they?" he snapped. "I'm adopted. And Ma... Ma never said anything. Not one fucking word. I didn't know. I should have remembered, and I didn't. I've been sitting here thinking, Irvine, and I don't _remember_. I don't remember leaving the orphanage, or when Ma first brought me home, or going to school when I was little... I don't remember _any_ of it. Just glimpses of things, like Seifer catching that damn vase when it fell, but it doesn't feel _real_." His voice was rising. I'm no doctor but I know the sound of somebody on the ragged edge of hysteria when I hear it. Zell wrapped his arms around himself, coat and all, huddled there on the fountain.

"Zell..." I was trying to find words, something comforting to offer him. In the relief of seeing remembrance on their faces I hadn't stopped to think of just what a shock it must be to any of them. "Your Ma was still your mom. She raised you. Just because you're not blood doesn't change that. Lots of kids are adopted."

He didn't say anything for a minute, his face turned away where I couldn't see his expression. "I just wish she'd said something," he said at last. "Maybe... maybe I could have remembered more. Fuck, Irvine... am I going to wake up some day and not remember _her_? And I won't even miss it because I won't know it's gone! Just whole chunks of my life slipping away..."

His words were like touching a live wire to wet skin. It was the same fear, there in his voice, that had crawled into my nerves ever since Selphie handed me that damn demon beast of hers. I found myself going over my own memories constantly, like prayer beads, running over them one by one, hoping they're all there. Hoping I'll notice if they're not.

Zell was scrubbing a hand across his face, taking a shuddering breath. "Sorry," he muttered. "Crap. I'm still whining, aren't I? Fuck."

"No," I told him softly. "No, I'm scared of forgetting too."

"It hurts," he admitted quietly. "To know... They're in there. In my head. Doing this to me. But I can't do this without them. I can't."

"None of us can." I pulled my coat closer, tilting my hat to keep the snow from my face. "We need the GFs. Without them, we'd be fucking dead ten times over."

"They're not just weapons," he whispered. "Quez... Quezacotl. She's sorry. I can feel it, in the back of my head, like a whisper. She's sorry for what she's doing. But that's the way she was, that's what she does, she can't stop any more then I can."

"All's fair in war," I told him. "And that's what this is turning into. We'll do what we have to."

"Yeah." He said it heavily, at though the one word was too much effort. When he glanced up it was to Trabia's ruined walls, dark shadows against the sunset. "Yeah, we will. All of us."


	4. Tending Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A round of confessions gives Irvine food for thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes:** After Cactaur Island.

There are times when being bent over the edge of a counter, the lip pressed cool into my hips and my trousers down around my knees, would be nothing to complain about. There are certainly times when the warm hand pressed firm to my waist wouldn't raise any objection from me. This just wasn't one of them.

"OW! Goddammit, Zell!"

"Sorry." The bastard didn't sound at all like he meant it. I'm going to wring his fucking neck.

There was a muted clatter on the counter and I chanced a look in time to see Zell toss down a spent cactuar thorn, the barbed end of it slickly red. I hastily averted my eyes again, the taste in the back of my throat bitter and sick, not wanting to know how much of my thigh had been torn out with it. Chunks, by the feel of it, raw and bloody on the end of each thorn.

I was going to be sicker than a dog if I kept thinking about it.

"Six more to go," Zell told me and he sounded disgustingly cheerful about it. "Just try to hold still, Irvine. It hurts less."

"Like hell it does..." I started, then sucked in a sharp breath, flinching, as a stab of bright pain through my hip told me Zell had grabbed onto the next thorn. /Hold still,/ I told myself firmly, biting down on the inside of my lip. /Just hold still.../

Zell yanked, thorn and flesh ripping out roughly, and I could either yelp with the pain of it or bite through my tongue. "Fucking SHIT!"

"Everything alright?"

Quistis' voice. Shit. I could feel the heat of the blood rushing straight to my face, leaving the rest of me cold. Did I mention there's a time and place for everything? And having Quisty get an eyeful of my bare ass when there's blood streaming down my thigh and a handful of those damn thorns sticking out of me isn't my idea of anything resembling the time and place a lady should be eyeing a guy's ass. Fuck.

"We're fine," Zell called loudly and I realized I hadn't heard the door open. Thank god for small favors. "I locked it," he told me in an undertone. "Didn't think you'd want Selphie in here." He paused, and I could hear the amusement in his voice. "Didn't think you could blush that far down, either."

"Fuck you," I snapped back. "Just get this the fuck over with!"

"You said it," he replied. It was all the warning I got and I put an impressive set of deep teethmarks in my forearm rather than yell again as he yanked out another thorn.

"Don't tense up," he told me. "Some of these are down in the muscle - tensing up isn't helping."

"You think this is easy?" I snarled back.

In answer Zell pushed his arm in front of my face. There, riddling his skin like pock marks, were the ragged pink blotches of fresh scars. I hissed through my teeth - the ones in my ass were bad enough, I didn't want to think about having my gun arm shot through with the damn things.

"Seventeen in that arm," he told me firmly. There was none of his usual energy or humor in his voice now. "The faster you do it, the faster it's over."

I would have bet my hat that Squall told him that. Probably while pulling the damn things out, same as Zell was doing to me. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood as Zell pulled another two thorns out. "So we're comparing counts?" I gasped out in the pause as he wiped the blood off his hands to get a better grip on the last thorns. "How many did Squall have?"

"Don't know." Zell's reply was perfectly flat in tone, and that really should have been my first clue but I was in enough pain that it didn't register for a minute. "Rinoa's taking care of him."

Oh.

_OH_.

Fuck that shit.

Zell grabbed one more thorn and yanked it out. I yelled, then caught his hand. Damn. The boy's slender enough, but his wrists are like corded steel.

Zell wasn't having any of it and I didn't have anywhere near the strength to hold him. "Let go, Irvine. There's just one more."

"Wait just a fucking minute," I said. "If Rinoa's taking care of Squall, who did your arm?"

"I did," Zell replied, his tone flat again. "And as soon as we're done patching you up, you'll have to help me get the ones in my back. I can't reach that far."

My pain fogged mind was trying to make clean sense of this. "But... But you... he... I thought...."

I could feel the hand on my hip tense, fingers biting into my flesh. Zell's tone had dropped into an icy cold. "Irvine, do me a favor. Stop thinking and shut the fuck up. Will you let me get this last thorn out of your ass before you bleed yourself white and faint on me?"

He pulled his wrist out of my grasp - no hard task, I was cold and starting to shiver with a mix of pain and blood loss and I could barely make a fist. His hand against my hip pressed me against the counter, holding me there, and I tensed miserably as I felt his other hand jostle that last thorn.

A quick jerk, ripping one more muffled scream from me, and then it was over. Please, god, it had to be over, and I was sure half my leg was missing and the blood was pouring wetly down to my knee. Zell's hands shifted, pressing tight to the raw mess that had been my thigh.

Cure. Sweet god in heaven, I love that spell. It washed over me in a warm wave, sinking straight into the pain and cleansing it away. I made some incoherent noise, half gasp; Zell's arm caught me around the waist as the muscles in my leg crumpled, as weak and liquid as water.

My ears were ringing like a dozen beehives, the lights in the room darkened with swarms of little black dots that swirled in front of my eyes. Dimly I recognized the sensation as what came right before being unconscious and from a distance I heard Zell swear. Another wave of warmth sank into me, chasing the chill away, and the bees reluctantly faded and let me focus once more.

This, an irreverent portion of my mind declared fuzzily, was a bit more like it.

Zell's a hell of a lot stronger than he looks, and not a bit of it junctioned in. Just pure muscle and hard work. His arm around my waist was holding me up, his palm curved warm around my hip and still radiating the soothing heat of a cure. My head was on his shoulder and I couldn't seem to find the muscles to lift it up. He shifted me slightly, his other hand brushing down my blood slicked thigh, but no flash of pain accompanied it. Whole and unhurt, and only the quick fading memory of the pain and a bit of dizziness to show for it.

If he ever gets tired of being SeeD, Zell would have a hell of a career in the medical field waiting for him.

The little room wasn't much better than a supply closet - no furniture, just a counter and some cupboards. Zell lowered me down to the floor, the deckplates icy cold under my bare thighs. I hissed, flinching, but the cold seemed to chase some of the cobwebs away from my head and I managed to sit up.

Zell crouched down beside me. He was white under the shock of his spiked hair, the dark tattoo down one blanched cheek standing out like a brand. "Alright?"

It took me two tries to find my voice and it came out in a sort of croak. "Yeah."

Zell breathed a sigh and sat down all the way, legs stretched out in front of him. There was blood on his bare calf and more fresh scars dotting down the fleshy part of the muscle. And he'd pulled the damn things out himself? Fuck. I couldn't imagine it.

I wasn't bleeding any more but what there was had smeared halfway down my calf and was dripping on the floor. Making myself move was the hardest part - once I started moving it got easier. I yanked my boots off with clumsy jerks, tossing them aside, and wriggled the rest of the way out of my trousers. To hell with it - he'd seen it all already, and I wasn't going to ruin a good pair of pants any more than they already were if I could help it.

I turned back to him half expecting some comment - I knew damn well I probably looked ridiculous sitting there bare arsed with nothing but an open vest and a hair tie that was half undone, my hair falling into my eyes - but Zell wasn't looking. He had his head down between his knees and he was starting to look green around the edges, eyes closed while he sucked in the classic 'I am _not_ going to be sick' breaths through an open mouth.

Shit. He'd said he had more of the damn things in him, and now I was going to have to be the one yanking them out. I hate this, more than the battles themselves. It's one thing in the middle of an adrenaline rush, when you don't have time to think, but afterwards... I've seen enough blood to last a lifetime.

I pushed myself up, the muscles in my thigh protesting as new tissue was stretched. Gritting my teeth, I settled down on my knees beside him. "Where?"

One hand started to gesture at his shoulder but he winced and aborted the motion. "Gotta get the jacket off," he mumbled. There wasn't any color left in his lips.

I'll give him this - he's a damn sight stronger than any of us give him credit for. He didn't make a sound though I knew peeling that jacket off of him had to hurt. It, like my pants, had seen better days, but the real damage was underneath. The damn cactuar thorns had gone right through the material of the jacket; his shirt across his back was more red than it was white, the cotton soaked with blood, and a trail of thorn tips spiking a path across his shoulders and clustered over his ribs.

I must have gasped because Zell flinched slightly. "Didn't hit anything vital," he muttered. "Just hurts like hell."

"Shit, Zell..." Words failed me. And he'd had all of that stuck in his back the entire time he was taking care of me, and me bawling like a baby... Just... shit.

It took more than I liked to admit to grab onto one of those damn thorns. In the end I braced my free hand against the middle of his back, his shirt wet and sticky beneath my fingers, and closed my eyes before I yanked. It didn't come out easy and I could feel the flesh tear around the barbed tip before it finally popped free. Zell hissed sharply, but that was all the sound he made. I tossed the thorn aside quickly, feeling my stomach clench tight, and determinedly grabbed the next one. No wonder he'd wanted to get it over with fast.

Nine thorns, and by the last one my hands were covered in his blood, streaking up past my wrists, slick and making my grasp uncertain. Zell was hunched over, head down, but he didn't do any more than grunt slightly with each ripped out thorn. I was flinching more than he was. I threw the last one away, hearing it clatter against the floor, my fingers already peeling his soaked shirt up around his shoulders as I closed my eyes and let the heat of a healing spell flood my hands.

Zell made a sound, almost like a sob, his back arching into my hands. He was trembling under my palms, the muscles across his shoulders spasming as the flesh started knitting itself back together. I pressed hard, as though it might make the spell work faster, skimming my hands over each of the ragged holes.

"Fuck..." Zell whispered, his voice thready. He let his head fall back for a moment, resting against my shoulder the way I had leaned on his. "Thanks."

He was warm and compact against my chest, all sleek muscle and hard flesh. I slipped my arms around him, hands sliding under his shirt to press against his chest over the heavy beat of his heart and the movement of his labored breaths. A second spell eased both, letting him sigh as he relaxed, boneless, against me.

Kind of like the afterglow of sex, in a way, but you don't need to ask which one I like better. I don't mind a little rough play, but a man's got his limits.

I scooted back a few inches to rest my shoulder against the base of the counter, Zell collapsed against my chest. We stayed there for a few minutes, just breathing, both of us wrung out.

God, what I wouldn't give for a hot shower, a huge meal, and a few days in a big, soft bed.

"Shower," Zell muttered, echoing my thoughts, but he didn't open his eyes or make a move to get up. "...Fuck it."

"You wash my back, I'll wash yours," I offered, half jesting.

"Fine." But he still wasn't moving and I didn't know if I had enough strength to get me up, never mind moving him. So we stayed there, his back pressed up against my chest. There were definitely times I wouldn't object to that arrangement, I thought. Hell, I wasn't objecting much now.

But that thought brought back the other one - like why the hell I was sitting here, instead of his erstwhile lover. If anybody had been left to tend their own wounds it should have been me, because I sure as hell wouldn't have asked Sephie for help. What the hell had Squall been thinking?

"Why do you care?" Zell snapped tiredly. I flushed - I hadn't meant that last bit to be out loud.

Might as well bite the bullet, though. At least Zell wasn't likely to beat the crap out of me for it just now - neither one of us wanted to move. "You and he... and he just goes off with Rinoa? What the _hell_?" If I let myself think about it much, I was going to get pissed on Zell's behalf. It was just a fucking shitty thing to do to anybody.

Zell twisted his head around, glaring up at me. "He and I _what_?" he demanded.

I gaped at him, my mouth open. Nothing had ever been flat out said, but I hadn't expected him to deny it. "You... I mean..." I fumbled, feeling the flush rise in my face and cursing my fair coloring. "He just dumped you for Rinoa? Just like that?"

Zell's expression was thunderous. "Fuck you," he growled, shoving himself up. His hand caught my stomach in passing, pushing me back against the counter breathlessly. "Fat lot you know about it. He didn't 'dump' me."

"Well, it's sure not a happy threesome," I gasped, struggling up.

"Shut up," Zell snapped back. "It's nothing. Never has been. I don't know what the hell you're thinking, but it's _nothing_."

I stared at him. I'd been so fucking sure! He was head over heels for Squall, it was obvious as anything. And even Squall couldn't be so oblivious as all of that. I blurted out the first thing that got to my tongue. "Is he fucking _blind_?"

For a minute I was sure I was about to have my nose broken. Zell tensed, fist clenched, and I flinched. But after a moment Zell slowly relaxed again, just looking at me. I couldn't read the expression on his face at all. He sighed, glancing away, and something like a wry smile twisted his lips. "What, you just figured that out?"

He couldn't be serious... then again, this was Squall we were talking about. Squall 'you don't need to know what I'm feeling and I don't give a fuck what you're feeling' Leonheart. "Did you tell him?"

"Hell, yes," Zell snorted. He leaned back on one arm, scrubbing the other hand across his face. "I made it real fucking clear. Didn't change a thing." Well, some people were like that. Sort of a shame, really - I've always figured playing both sides of the field just gives a guy more options. Zell kept speaking, though, and his next words caught me by surprise. "I feel sorry for Rinoa. She doesn't have a clue."

"Huh? Why?"

Zell glanced at me, looking honestly surprised. "Oh, come on... you gotta see it. The guy's obsessed. He's doesn't care any more about Rinoa than he does about me, and she doesn't have the faintest idea."

I settled back against the counter again. Without Zell draped over me my skin was starting to break out in chills, the drying blood on my leg cold and unpleasantly sticky. "There's somebody else?"

Zell made a rude sound. "You weren't with us at Balamb, but still... come on, Irvine, you're not some schoolgirl blinded with a crush. Think about it. Why the hell do you think Squall took up gunblade?"

"Because he's a bull headed bastard who always has to do things the hard way," I answered automatically, grinning.

It startled a laugh out of Zell. "Besides that," he said. "Who else do we know who uses a gunblade?"

Zell was just looking at me, waiting for the lightning to hit. I'm not _that_ slow. I made a soundless sort of "oh" as the equation suddenly kicked into place. Zell's right - it's fucking obvious when you know what to look for. "Seifer."

"Right," Zell snapped out. "Ever since we were kids - anything one of 'em had, the other had to have too. And now... what does Seifer have that Squall doesn't?"

"The Galbadian army," I retorted sourly but Zell just shook his head. "And..." a thought occurred to me, but I naively hoped I might be wrong. "And... a sorceress. He's the Sorceress' Knight."

Zell just met my eyes, unwavering. "And what's Rinoa?"

"Oh... shit."

"Yeah," Zell agreed humorously. "Like I said, I feel sorry for her."

"That's just... twisted." The more I thought about it, the more I felt a little bit sick. Squall's never been quite right in the head, I remember that from our shared childhood. But this... this was just really sick. Rinoa could be a pain, but she was basically a decent girl. And Zell was right - she wouldn't see it, she just didn't think like that. She wouldn't know she was being used in a game of one-up manship.

"He probably doesn't think it out like that," Zell added, conversationally. "But he's been obsessed about Seifer for so long... he probably doesn't think about it at all. He just reacts, and Seifer's been pulling his strings for years."

With Zell on the outside, and I knew there wasn't any love lost between him and Seifer. There hadn't ever been, not since they got in biting fights as toddlers. "What'd he do?" I asked. "When you told him?"

"Squall?" Zell shifted, wearily stripping the blood soaked remnant of his shirt off over his head and tossing it away. He started to lean back, then paused at the last moment, twisting to glance up at me. "You mind?"

"Hell no. You're warm." He was, and his weight against my chest and sprawled over my legs was nice. Zell closed his eyes again, relaxing.

"He didn't do anything. You really think he would?"

Well... no. Not really. He'd probably uttered his patented 'Whatever' and kept right on going. "But you made it really clear?" I pressed.

One clear blue eye slitted open to glance at me, his tone heavily sarcastic. "Gee, Irvine, I don't know. If a guy grabs you and kisses you until you're blue, would you consider that 'clear'?"

Hell, there was a pretty mental picture. "Um... yeah. I'd call that pretty clear." Nice sounding, too. "And he didn't do _anything_?" I couldn't keep the note of disbelief out of my voice.

"Told me it was none of my business." Zell closed his eyes again, sighing. "Look, I don't really want to talk about it any more. Life sucks sometimes, y'know? Nothing to be done about it."

He sounded bone tired. I shut my mouth and left it that way. It wasn't the most comfortable position I'd ever been in, and the deck plating was leaving grooves in my ass, but Zell had the right idea - it'd be all too easy to just close my eyes and drop off for a bit.

His head was tucked against my shoulder, the fringe of his bangs brushing my neck. He looked younger like that, eyes closed, relaxed. His cheeks still had a childish sort of roundness to them, but all evidence of the child disappeared beneath his chin. Muscle and bone, stretched sleek across his shoulders and tapering down a pale chest to a slender waist. There were recent scars there, arcing across his chest and ribs in pale, whiter swatches of smooth skin, already fading. I touched one gently, tracing the path of it across his ribs and up into his sternum. Too many scars. We all had them, but still... shit. Sometimes, it was just too much.

The image of Zell just grabbing Squall and kissing him kept forming in my head. I wondered if he'd done it right there in the middle of the main hallway of Balamb Garden. If anyone would, it'd be Zell. He'd grown impulsive in his later years.

My hands flattened themselves against the warm flesh of his stomach. Dangerous ground, Kinneas. "None of your business" goes double for you. But damn it was nice to just hold him like that, all warm and solid. He's a real blond, that's for sure - that bleached beachboy look is natural, and a light dusting of matching hair trailed down to his navel and disappeared beneath his belt.

I was a little surprised he didn't have any decoration... tattoos, piercings, something. After that tribal thing on his cheek you'd almost expect it. But there was nothing I could see, not even an earring... which didn't rule out things I couldn't see under his jeans, but I shut that thought down quickly.

He didn't need it, though. Not one bit. And Squall had turned this down... flat out turned it down, in favor of that icy aristocratic bastard with his fake airs. Leonhart was a fool.

And Zell was just... petable. I swear. Like a cat curled up in your lap. I'd wondered once if he purred. Or gasped, maybe... he's so loud the rest of the time, I wouldn't be surprised if he's a screamer. Now there's a pleasant thought.

And I wasn't quite as tired as I thought I was, was I? Shit.

I shifted slightly to keep my worst thoughts more to myself and less in the middle of his back. This could get damned awkward in a hurry, and me without any fucking clothes on. Zell just shifted with me, his head turning to press his cheek to my shoulder. "...tired..." he mumbled.

Oh hell. I am such a soft hearted sucker for a pair of pretty blue eyes.

I slipped an arm around his shoulder, feeling him relax into me. He was worn out, and small wonder. The shit he does in a battle is a hell of a lot more taxing than aiming a gun and firing it. Those muscles of his are all the weapon he needs.

Fuck, I wanted him. I might as well admit it. I really, really wanted him.

But he was curled up against me, and his breathing had tapered into soft little sighs, nice and slow. Impersonal as a kitten and twice as cute. I let my free arm slide around his waist and, bending, brushed my lips across his forehead where the stark lines of his tattoo tapered away. He tasted of sweat and dirt and a little of blood; we both needed a shower badly.

But I wasn't like hell going to wake him up. Not just yet. Settling my back more comfortably against the counter base, I leaned my head back and closed my own eyes. Nap first, shower later... and who knew, maybe I could sweet talk him into letting me wash his back.


	5. Fear, Like Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Battle and aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note:** Deep Sea Research facility, Ultima Weapon

Zell's down.

It's going through my head like some twisted litany, a frantic countdown centered on the body laying crumpled on the floor in a mess of fresh blood and smoking burns and the nauseating smell of charred flesh. It supersedes everything else, from the sharp sickening pains in my own body to the nightmare fear hammering adrenaline through my veins.

Zell is _down_.

Goddamn fucking shit. The next time anyone says "I wonder what's down there?" I'm going to unload a round of shrapnel into the bastard's ass and I don't care if it's Zell who fucking says it!

He'd better say it. He'd better damn well be around to say it.

Bastard. Fuck. Idiot! Get up, get up, _get up_!

But he's not going to. He's fucking not going to and I'm running on automatic, the mantras falling off my lips as fast as I can speak them, one spell after another in rushes of energy that surge through me. It blunts my own pain and it's keeping Squall on his feet but there's blood everywhere and fuck if it's not all ours. Fuck fuck FUCK.

That ugly thing, that whatever it is, some monstrosity from hell or a fucking science experiment gone wrong - goddamn, it just won't go down. Dying in some fucking underwater mad scientist lab, just fuck me... I'm releasing spell on top of spell until it feels like they're burning me, the surge of each one stripping out my veins inside and searing like flashfire through my nerves. It's a new kind of pain but those little measures of life that I'm pouring out are all that's giving us any kind of chance.

And Zell is down, burnt and bleeding. How long until curaga doesn't work any more? How long until every life spell in the world won't put the breath back in his lungs or jumpstart his heart? How long until flesh turns cold and unresponsive and no magic can turn back the hands of time?

How long until death becomes real?

Fuck me. _Fuck_ me.

Squall reels back from one of the thing's vicious slashes, stumbling, and it's automatic - another spell, the same mantra repeatedly, the warmth ripping through my palms until I'm sure they're blistering. It's not the blessed relief it once was. There's a point when the flesh starts protesting as it's put back together, when the cells don't want to knit any more, and Squall's face contorts as I pour it into him and force him back up to his feet. Even magic has a limit and there's only so much blood the body can replace - he's blanched white and my own hands are shaking, my knees buckling, but no fucking way can I go down. I can't. We can't.

Zell can't.

_Fuck_.

It's cold in the middle of battle and somewhere your brain shuts down and while some panicked little voice is swearing in the background you're standing there doing calm calculations of blood volume to body mass and probabilities. Squall's up, he can probably take another hit. Can I? Do I have the time to cast one spell on myself _before_ Squall gets hit and I have to turn my attention to him? In a pinch, which one of us is expendable?

Like that's even a fucking question. He's in the thing's ugly fucking face, gunblade a flashing blur of edged steel and the muted explosion of bullets. It roars, falling back a step before the onslaught, but one talon tipped paw from the beast catches him and throws him back, while the human looking part is raising it's own sword. No fucking question at all. It doesn't matter if I can feel something tear inside as I throw myself forward, and the blood in my mouth only provides some much needed liquid to a bone dry throat as I mouth the mantra once more and Squall, face a grim mask of pinched pain, spins to the side before the thing can catch him again and never mind if his ribs are leaving trails of bright blood strung like paint across the floor.

This can't keep going. This can't keep fucking going. Somewhere, deep in the back of my head, I can hear an echoing roar; enraged, blood thirsty, wanting out, but there's no time. The three heartbeats it would take to let them loose is three heartbeats too many when it's all I can do to wring forth another spell and force myself back to my own feet.

Zell is down, I'm going down, and Squall, if you can take that ugly thing out then you'd better fucking do it _now_.

I don't need to tell him. Nobody knows it better than he does. We're racing against time and somewhere there's a clock ticking down seconds in my mind and each second is another second too long, another nail in a fucking coffin labeled Zell _god-damn fucking_ Dincht, and both of us piled right in after him. This can't be real. This can not be fucking real. I want to wake up.

The thing's starting to glow again, something you can see just out of the corner of your eye while the energy waves from it ripple and the hair on the back of my neck is on end. It did it before, when some great blinding beam took out Zell like a pulse cannon at point blank range before any of us could react. He hadn't made a fucking sound; I don't think he had time. And now it's eyeing us, trying to decide which to take out next and it'll be a flood of white light and searing heat and another charred body on the ground. I almost hope it's me. Just let this be over. Please.

But maybe there are gods, and maybe, just this once, they actually are listening.

They say adversity brings out the best in us. I call it desperation being the mother of fucking strength you didn't know you had. Squall hefts his gunblade, taking a breath that flecks blood across his lips. It's now or never. And from somewhere I find the strength to croak one more spell, the flare of it bursting out through my fingertips to sink deep into Squall and dragging a yell from my throat as the pain of it flashes up my arms and I can actually smell the burning of my own palms.

But it straightens Squall's flagging shoulders and jerks his head up. For one moment his eyes meet mine and I can see the strength of the spell burning deep in those cloudy depths, giving him what wounded muscle and flesh alone can't supply any more. It has to be enough, it just has to.

The tip of the gunblade lifts, catching the light down its edge, and Squall, with a roar, surges forward like a bullet.

I'll light a hundred candles in a hundred shrines to whatever god protects fools like us if we get out of here, I swear it.

The gunblade flares, bright and blinding, as black gloved hands swing it in a beautiful, deadly arc.

And with a deafening shriek, the thing goes _down_.

It's a minor miracle just to see. The bulk of it crashes to the floor, the impact vibrating through the rock and bouncing off the walls in distorted echoes. Squall, lips twisted in a snarl, wrenches his blade free from bone and raises it again, thick black blood flying from the sword edge as he reverses it, plunging it back down. The huge bulk shudders, paws scrabbling and gouging furrows across the floor but it's down and with one more blow Squall makes fucking sure it stays there, cut damn near in two.

It's down. It's dead. And we're... we're still standing. Still alive. Fucking shit, we're _alive_. Miracles really do happen.

And then my eyes fall on the crumpled heap in it's blast circle of scorched rock and I'm pushing myself to my feet, the floor scraping across the blisters on my palms as I scramble forward with the spell already on my lips.

He looks so damn small, laying there. There's blood everywhere, wet and slick. He had the time to throw up one arm in automatic defense before the beam struck him - the flesh is damn near melted, blistered and blackened, cooked and burst open to expose the raw muscle beneath. The smell of it is thick and heavy, burned cloth and hair and flesh, cloying in my lungs with the gorge rising in my throat.

I put my hands on the ruin of his chest, still and silent beneath my palms, and let the words surge from my lips.

It's a softer spell at first, warm and cradling before it swells, cresting like a wave, and jolts out in a rush through my hands to his body. Flesh jerks beneath my palms, spasming as the current rushes through it, but when the spell clears there's no reassuring pulse there, no rise and fall of lungs collapsed within a crushed rib cage.

He's cooling beneath my fingertips, the blood turning sticky as it congeals.

Oh, fuck no. Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK NO!

I'm choking on the words, the spells flashing through me like rapid fire shots, ripping pain through my exhausted bones as they sear into the body before me. Please, please gods... oh fucking _please_. I've never prayed for anything so hard before, the tears welling hot and raw in my aching eyes. Please. PLEASE. One heartbeat, one breath... anything. Fucking god damn hell, anything!

Nothing. Nothing, and it's a horrible mockery to see him so still and ruined, to see that body that's never quiet now limp and heavy and cooling in a pool of its own blood. This can't be happening. I'm on my knees, my hands sunk hard into a mass of flesh and fabric, desperately willing there to be one responding pulse beat beneath my palms.

Then there are other hands on my own, covering mine, hard and calloused and alive, gripping my wrists in a bruising clench. Squall, on his knees across from me, one leather glove still dangling from between his teeth where he ripped it off, his gunblade clattering to the floor beside him. Fresh spells pour into me like a tidalwave, bright and strong with the taint of his cool flavor on them. It gives me back my breath, a hard strength I can lean on, and my voice is steady once more as I breathe the words and send another jolt pouring forth.

A spasm, rocking bone and muscle, and in its wake, faint and thready, I catch the fluttering throb of an abused organ trying to beat once more.

Squall is there, curaga already on his lips, streaming from his hands in hot washes across burned flesh. I find another and add it to his, our voices in tandem, the words slipping away into the waves of energy swelling beneath our palms.

And there, beneath our combined hands, a gasping breath is pulled in. And then another. And another. I've never heard anything as glorious as those thin, blood choked wheezes of air.

He's alive, he's fucking alive. Burned flesh sloughs away, bright pink and tenderly new beneath, bone and muscle knitting together back into a living whole. He's _alive_.

My hands are blood soaked and shaking, leaving a streak of red across his cheek as I touch him. Eyelids shiver, slitting open for one moment, blood shot blue beneath but they _open_ and that's enough for me. He's alive.

I don't know I'm crying until I hear my own sobs, gasped and ragged and shaking with relief, bordering somewhere on the high sharp note of hysteria. Squall's hands shift, sliding up my arms beneath the sleeves of my coat to grip, warm and solid, just below my elbows. The warmth floods me, soothing away the harsh jangle of my aching nerves and shivering muscles and letting me get a grip on myself, enough to meet his eyes.

He's quiet, almost composed, face pale and wane. It isn't until he glances down, his eyes on Zell, that his composure breaks. There's pain there, something bitter and private and deep, flaring in his eyes and twisting his lips. He swallows and then jerks his hands away from me, as though only just remembering that they are there.

But one hand creeps out, slender fingers pale without their leather casing, and one fingertip just brushes the dark lines of the tattoo curling up the curve of Zell's cheek. He pulls it back quickly, angrily jerking his gloves back on. When he glances at me, the mask is in place again, firm and unshakable.

Except for the storm sweeping through his eyes, and in another moment that too is gone. "Thank you," he says quietly. Just that and nothing more, a simple congratulation of a job well done, as though it were nothing to him personally. The buckles of his belts jangle as he pushes himself to his feet, the gunblade ringing off the stone as he scoops it up.

Zell, with a little mewling sound, takes a deeper breath, wonderfully clear, and the taut lines of pain in his body slowly relax. My hand is still on his chest, the flesh whole beneath my fingers, his heartbeat strong and steady.

"Thank _you_," I whisper, almost soundlessly, to Squall's retreating back. Thank fate, thank the gods, thank a hard headed taciturn bastard who doesn't believe in giving up and the natural resilience of an endless coil of blond energy.

We're alive. All of us.

We're fucking _alive_.


	6. Calm Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shared nervousness and a little something for luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes:** Aboard the Ragnarok.

"He's so _cute_!" Selphie insists again. She's lowered her voice this time.

I sigh, pushing my hat back. "Sephie... he's old enough to be your father."

"Oh, poooh." She's cute when she pouts. Hell, she's cute all the time, but when she's got her nose all wrinkled up like an angry kitten and looks at you with those big eyes it's like a drop kick back through time and we're both four again. I lost more desserts to her because of that look. "You're just jealous, Irvine. Sir Laguna is the best!"

God save me from schoolgirl hero-worship crushes. Maybe she's right, maybe I am jealous - she's gone on about him for the last hour, non-stop. Or maybe there's just so much I can hear about the guy before I start banging the back of my head into a wall. She knows his entire life history, I swear... every article for every magazine that he ever wrote, the movie he was in, everywhere he traveled, everything he did. Not to mention those little time loop episodes Ellone kept arranging. She's asked me six times if I think it'd be all right to get an autograph from him.

She's pouting now, nibbling on her lower lip. "Irvy... you really think I should just go ask him for an autograph? I mean, he's the president now and everything! I don't want him to think I'm silly."

Seven.

"You'd be flattering him," I assure her for the upteenth time. She's turning pink across her nose and I know what the next question is - I've already heard it. Several times. "And no, it's not too forward. You want an autograph, not a date!"

"Well, yeah!" she exclaims, but the pink is creeping over her cheeks and her eyes are fixed on the pilot controls and not meeting mine. "It's just... he's so brave and smart and he's really good looking, you can't tell how old he is at all... he must have girls tell him that all the time. I don't want him to think I'm just the same as all the rest."

"Selphie," I'm trying to sound reasonable but it's starting to be a stretch, "you're a trained SeeD and you're about to go save his country. He's not going to think you're some groupie."

"Well good!" she snaps hotly. "Because I'm not! But he's really famous and I just want an autograph." She paused for just a moment, then continued in a rush. "And a picture. Maybe him and me together, wouldn't that be cool? Then everybody would know I really met him!"

I have got to get out of here. I have got to have a conversation with someone about something other than Selphie's crush before I go insane. A good man knows the benefit of a quick tactical retreat. It's just us in the control room; everyone else is making themselves scarce. Time I did likewise. "That'd be great, Sephie. I'm sure he'd go for it. Look, will you be okay up here by yourself for a bit? I want to go see Squall, find out what he's got planned."

The tip of Selphie's tongue makes a brief appearance. "Of course I will! _I'm_ flying!"

"Better you then me," I tell her, ruffling her hair just a little. She slaps at me but I sidestep and head for the door.

There's blessed merciful silence on the other side of it and no one is mentioning Laguna Loire's name. I probably ought to warn the man not to get stuck in a room with Selphie. Or... maybe with the way his friends say Laguna talks I should warn Selphie instead. Oh hell. Forget it. I love Selphie to death, I really do, but she can be incredibly intense sometimes.

It's quiet on the lower deck, though I can hear the echo of voices coming from the conference room. Despite what I told Selphie, I'm really not in the mood to go over this half-baked suicide plan again. Go in, get our asses kicked, and if we're really lucky we'll get out again. Good enough for me and I'll let Squall's head, however messed up it might be, worry about the rest of it.

The sound of voices gets suddenly louder as the door opens and I quickly turn and head in the opposite direction. The hanger bay down below should be nice and quiet and empty; a good spot for me, and an open place where I can disassemble the Exeter down to its nuts and bolts and clean out the insides of it. We've all got our little pre-battle rituals, I suppose - making sure that thing is cleaned, oiled and as jam-proof as human hands can make it is one of mine. A man shouldn't use a gun unless he knows how to take proper care of it.

I'm thinking about that and the fact that I'm running a bit low on explosive shells and fumbling around in my interior coat pockets for the scraps of rag and thin rods I need to clean the barrel out; maybe that's why, when I step off of the lift onto the hanger catwalk, it doesn't immediately register that I'm not actually alone.

And once it does, all thoughts of cleaning and shell counting run straight out of my head in favor of just leaning over the catwalk guard rail and _watching_.

He told me once he gets nervous before big operations. Wound up. I guess we all do, and the first thing our thoughts turn to is our weapons. We live or die by those things. To me, it means sitting down with rags and oil and making sure every bullet I load into the firing chamber can slide down that barrel without a hitch. But to him... you can't even call it dancing. It's not.

It's flying.

He never stops. There's never a point when he comes to rest for a moment, there's no beginning or end. It's all just one continuous flow of controlled motion; a blur of fists and feet and the arch of his back as he twists, the surge through his legs as he leaps. His jacket is off in a heap by the wall and the dim lights of the hangar give a pale almost ghostly glow to his bare arms and turns the leather of his gloves into something blood soaked and shining. There's no noise beyond the occasional rush of his breath and the sound of his feet hitting the floor.

Zell is so fucking beautiful when he's in motion. I've seen him in battle lots of times, but it still never really fails to amaze me. And I've never seen him like this, shadowboxing with himself, doing the moves just for the sake of motion and the burn of energy through his muscles. There's nothing in the hanger but him and the dance of his own shadow on the walls but you can still see it, pantomimed in every attack - the kick lashing out at the peak of a leap, taking down a T-rex, and the punch and twist and duck as one enemy falls and another is evaded. It's like he's fighting all of the battles we've already won, and if I look close enough I can almost see what he's doing - how that punch might have been carried through just a bit better and how finally on the fourth try he finds it, the perfect motion where every move is utterly right, and then he does it three more times just to burn the pattern of it into his muscles and mind.

I'm holding my breath. It's almost seems like sacrilege to watch, like an intrusion on something fundamental and ultimately private, but I can't pull my eyes away. He's taken something raw and deadly and made art out of it, out of the slide of skin across muscle and the leap of lines in his throat as his head whips around, his body following in one long smooth curve. Watching him, I can feel the heavy tension that's been building in the pit of my stomach begin to relax. I can't help but think that maybe we will make it out alive - because he will. Because a weapon that finely honed, that beautiful, doesn't fail.

A handful of minutes or more, just leaning on the rail and watching as he moves. When he stops its a surprise; a leap, a twist and then a kick, pivoting into the follow through and then the motion comes to a smooth halt. Zell leans over, hands braced on his knees, for one moment just perfectly still.

Two breaths and he's back in motion, but it's not the same. The moves are sharper, faster, snapped out and pulled back with a savage sort of intensity. It's like watching Squall, when his gunblade is already sharp enough to split hairs and polished to a shine, spending hours with a whetstone grinding out non-existent imperfections along the blade edge. Or me, when the gun barrel is cleaned and oiled, and I still spend every last minute chasing down the one spot that I _know_ I missed... even though I didn't.

Nervous energy. When the storm breaks, we pull it together and we're fine. It's the calm lulls in between that are killing us.

I lean the Exeter against the rail and as an afterthought shrug out of my coat, slinging it across the edge. Hat and boots follow and it's on bare feet that I pad down the steps to the hangar floor.

Zell catches sight of me coming and breaks off, meeting me at the base of the stairs. He's only slightly out of breath with a faint sheen of perspiration across his forehead, and I have a moment to consider the insanity of what I'm about to do.

"We there?" He says it all at once, in a rush, with the ends of the words bitten off. He's coiled tighter than a spring about to snap.

"No. Circling while they," I jerk my head in the direction of upstairs, "figure out the details." Reaching out, I hook two fingers in the shoulder of his black tank top and keep right on walking towards the open floor of the hangar, tugging at him to follow. "Come on."

"Wha...?" He could give Selphie a run for the most adorable expression when he's confused. I pull him to the center of the floor and give him a little shove, getting him to stand where I want him to. Stepping back, I stretch, feeling the warm tingle down my arms and up my neck.

"Irvine?" He's still looking puzzled, but there's a frown shadowing his brow and his eyes are starting to narrow. "What do you think you're doing?"

One more chance to back out. I know I'm going to regret this, there's no doubt in my mind about it. Pulling the tie from my hair, I rake the mass of it back and secure it tighter. "Giving you something to punch at beside air."

He does me the courtesy of not laughing outright, but his tone says it all. "You have got to be kidding me."

"Nope." Bend at the waist, put my palms on the floor - it's not quite as easy as I thought it would be and there's a tight burn up the back of my calves. I hold it for a count of five before pushing back upright. I keep my tone nonchalant as I work first one shoulder, then the other. "I'll be the first to admit I'm not much, but I took basic unarmed combat, same as everyone else."

Zell's face is an open book of his feelings, and the look on it now tells me just what a fool I'm being. "Come on," I wheedle quietly. "Just some basics, nothing fancy." I shrug just a little. "I'm all wound up in knots. Can't sit still."

That same expression tells me I've hit the target. I haven't mentioned it to them - the subject hasn't come up - but I'm a damn good gambler. All part of the image. The secret is all in making the bluff sound sincere.

He's still hesitating but after another moment he unbuckles his gloves and strips them off, tossing them towards his jacket. He kicks his shoes after them, leaving us both barefoot on the cold deckplates. It's a nice gesture on his part and it gives me the illusion of us being equal, even if we both know he'd be more dangerous stripped naked then I could ever hope to be.

"Just basic stuff," he confirms. No problem.

Under that punk exterior he adopts, he's a real gentleman. He lets me get in one good punch to salve my ego before he goes into motion, and then the entire world upends itself in a blur and the next thing I know I'm flat on my back on the floor with the wind knocked out of me and he's standing over me looking concerned. "You all right?"

"Yeah," I wheeze. I push myself up and struggle to my feet, waving away the helping hand he offers. "Sorry. I'm a little rusty. Try that one again?"

"You're insane," he tells me bluntly, but I'm game so he is too. And the world turns upside down again and the damned floor isn't getting any softer. My shoulders are going to bruise.

"Fuck," I manage to gasp after the fourth repeat of this little maneuver. This is where my bluff gets called. Sure, I took unarmed combat, just like everyone else - when I was fucking fourteen years old. 'A little rusty' might be an understatement.

"Call it quits?" he offers, extending a hand down to pull me up.

It's a dirty move and sheer inspiration on my part. I reach up, grab his hand, and pull, hooking my knee around his ankles to drag him down. Zell yells, startled; there's no finesse to it and we end up in a jumbled pile with his weight mostly on me.

"_Now_ we call it quits," I tell him, grinning just a bit. Levering a knee into his back I shove, pushing myself out from under him.

"Cheat," Zell accuses, but there's no sting to it.

"A man's gotta use what he can," I reply. The tie in my hair is digging into the back of my neck; I twist my head enough to pull it out and toss it aside.

Zell waves a hand slightly, dismissing my momentary victory. "As long as you don't start name calling, I can deal."

He's joking but I can remember when that used to be the bane of his life. Seifer always had some name for him, starting with 'crybaby' and getting more creative from there. There's lots of memories there, usually of Zell, round face screwed up as he tried not to cry, wide blue eyes red rimmed and watery.

And then another memory intrudes and the only possible reason I can give for what I do next is momentary insanity. Either that, or somewhere I'm a closet masochist.

I've seen him move but I still never imagined Zell could jump as fast as he does when my fingertips find his ribs. Seems there's some things we never grow out of.

I've got the upper hand for maybe thirty seconds with the benefit of surprise. I grab a fistful of his shirt and get my hand up under it before he can bring his elbows down to protect his ribs. Zell's swearing in between gasped yells, wriggling like a mad thing fit to turn himself inside out.

But we're not kids any more and I can't just pin him down with greater body mass and tickle him until he's red in the face and screaming. Which is why, less then a minute later, one fist catches me beneath the chin and snaps my head back with a crack I can feel halfway down my spine. Something else slams into my chest and my breath is gone again, the deck plates scraping elbow and shoulder as I slide across them before collapsing, the ceiling spinning above me.

"Fuck! Irvine!" Zell scrambles to my side. He really does sound concerned. Like I said, he's a gentleman; I know damn well he pulled those punches. If he hadn't, I'd be nothing but a wet red smear on the floor.

No tricks this time. He helps me sit up, his fingers probing along the ache I can feel spreading over my jaw. "'S okay," I tell him. "My own fault."

"Hell yeah, it is." Once he's sure I'm not broken anywhere he sits back, hands dangling down between his propped up knees. "Stupid bastard."

I grin a little crookedly, my hair straggling all in my face. "Yeah. But you're not sparking any more."

That catches him off guard. "Huh?"

"Too tense," I clarify, having to shape the words a little carefully around the bruise I can feel forming on my chin. "Looked like you were gonna try to punch a hole through the wall."

He just stares at me for a minute, then shakes his head. "You... fuck. You're just insane."

"Yeah, I know." I reach out and tap a knuckle against the bare skin of his ankle. There's a paler stripe across the arch of his foot, the leftover remnant of some half faded sandal strap tan line; I resist the urge to run my fingertips across it. "Worked, didn't it?"

He considers, head tilted a little to the side. He doesn't need to answer, I can see it for myself. The fire is still there, in his eyes and beneath his skin like it always is, but it's not consuming him.

"You're still nuts," he tells me, grinning ruefully. He pushes himself up and offers me a hand with a slightly wary look. "Thanks."

"Welcome." I take his hand and let him haul me to my feet; he does it effortlessly, all arm muscle, like I don't weight a thing. He's got square hands, strong, clasped around my own in a warm grasp and I'm reluctant to let it go. He hesitates for a moment, not quite meeting my eyes, and I wonder if he feels it too.

There's good times to bring things up, and bad times. And then there's just no time, which is mostly what we've had. Neither one of us has said a word about it, and right now, when we're facing down a monumental battle, isn't a good time to bring it up. It's a fucking bad time, really. But I'm not always as suave as the image makes me out to be, and sometimes you just have to do what feels right in your gut.

His free hand catches my shoulder before I can complete the gesture I start. He doesn't push me away, just holds me there - that far, no further, our faces a hand's breadth apart and his blue eyes looking up into mine. "Irvine," he starts, his tone warning, and I shush him hastily. I don't want to hear whatever he's going to say. I don't want to hear the words that it's not right, or it's none of my business, or any of the other denials I can see in his eyes.

So instead I smile a little, wistfully. "Just one kiss?" I make my tone light, the offer just that - a harmless offer of some small token. "For luck?"

He doesn't refuse immediately, which gives me hope. When his fingers tighten briefly against mine I know I've won this hand. "For luck," he agrees, and then he leans up to close the distance and instead of being a restraining force on my shoulder his hand slides up to tangle in my hair as his lips close over mine.

Zell's not one for doing things by halves. He doesn't make any pretense at keeping it quick or light or 'just between friends'. It's open mouthed and warm and wet, a real kiss, while he's leaning into me and his grip on my hand is hard enough to hurt. There's nothing I want so much as to just wrap an arm around his waist and pull him close but I don't; I won't abuse what he's giving me like that.

He's a damn good kisser and sweet to the taste. And somewhere, on another level, there's the crackle of lightning on his lips and the dark, cool taste of earth and some feral flare of pure primal energy. I have to wonder if I taste of floodwaters and the green tang of desert cactus. He gives when he kisses, the play of tongue and lip has his full attention; it's hotter then hell and there's tingles going down my spine.

And fuck all if he doesn't purr. There's a low moan rumbling somewhere deep in his throat, all hunger and greed as he nips at my lower lip. If Zell's not one hell of a screamer I'll eat my fucking hat.

It takes us several long, slow minutes to break it off and I savor every single one of them. It really is for luck. For luck and hope, and fuck, if I have to go down then I want this memory to take with me. I want the image of him, eyes closed, lips flushed and wet and open, to be the last thing I see in my mind's eye before some bitch sorceress knocks me into the afterlife.

I press a soft kiss to his forehead, right where the curve of his tattoo arches over his brow. "For luck," I tell him.

"Luck," he whispers back, his hand tightening on mine and his voice has a huskiness to it that makes me shiver. He steps back, looking up to meet my eyes, but for once I can't read what's there. He presses my hand once more and then lets go, twisting his wrist away, and I let him.

Something like his usual devil may care smile flashes, bright and dazzling, and the intensity of the moment is broken. "Come on. We'd better get back. Who's watching Selphie to be sure she doesn't fly this thing into a mountain?"

I manage a grin and head for the stairs to go find my own shoes while he gets his. It's a good memory, one I want to hold on to. It's enough for now.

And there will be a later. There will be. Because kisses for luck - those kind of kisses - don't fail.


	7. Making Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendship, love and courage...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes:** Inside Ultimecia's castle, with magic and junctions locked.

The dragon stumbles, its massive legs crumbling, claws scrabbling across the stone floor as it slowly falls. I let myself breath again, my hands automatically going through the motions of reloading. The dragon's last roar is fading, the dank, heavy silence enclosing us again, and the clatter of my shells hitting the ground echo back mockingly from the shadows.

We knew it was going to be bad. I just didn't think it was going to be this bad.

Zell is winded, his breath puffing harshly in the hushed quiet, but he won't stop moving. I don't think he can. It's his refuge from the dark, the stop gap that keeps the creeping dread from overshadowing him. Crouched at Squall's side, his hands move restlessly, skimming across wounds that are staining a white shirt brilliantly red and dripping in spattered droplets across the floor.

Squall's face is the same color as the collar of his jacket, his lips pinched tightly shut. The dragon's claws had caught his shoulder, the leather sleeve shredded like so much tissue paper and scoring rows of raw, wet slashes from bicep to wrist. He flinches and there's more blood on his lips - he's biting down to keep silent as Zell separates the ruin of jacket from flesh.

I sink down on my heels beside them. Close up it's even more of a mess and the droplets are becoming a small bloody puddle. It covers Zell's already soaked gloves, bright red blood on shiny red leather. He's whispering beneath his breath, the steady cadence of a mantra, hopeless but having to try.

The words are lost in the silence, lost and eaten by the shadows clustered around the twisted stone forms that peer down from the cobweb festooned ceiling. Words without substance, without form, without any spark of life to them. Just words. Nothing but wasted breath.

"Shit." The bitterness hisses through Zell's teeth, harsh and echoing around us. "Fucking _hell_."

SeeD. Soldiers. Trained, hardened fighters. But bullets and fists and blades aren't enough any more. Not for this battle. We're fighting crippled and blinded.

"Outside," I hear myself say as though from a distance, my voice low. "Beyond that fucking seal."

Zell nods. I almost expect him to rage about it, but there's no rage left. Not here, smothered in our enemy's shadow. But 'outside' is one floor down and corridors away and Squall's eyes are closed, his breathing shallow. I'm already sliding the tie from my hair. Classes in basic first aid seem so long ago and far away. We've been here days, years - there's no telling, no change in the still air or the eternal gloom. Maybe it's been lifetimes.

Zell's hands are on Squall's shoulders, holding him steady as I wrap the leather cord above the highest slash. "Hold still," I warn, and pull the cord tight; as tight as I can, watching it bite into pale flesh and hoping it will be enough. Zell's fingers are there to catch and hold it, keeping the tension as I knot the ends.

We're so used to the instantaneous. Spoiled by it. A few words, a flare of bright energy, and a wound is closed in the blink of an eye as even the scars fade. Instant relief. Clean. Simple. It hurts to watch the blood still trickle down Squall's wrist to pool around his hand. It fucking hurts to know that maybe - maybe! - enough pressure on an artery will slow the bleeding down, but there's not a damn thing we can do to stop it. To heal it. There is no bouncing up and charging right back into the fray, good as new. Not here.

It fucking makes my stomach twist to watch Squall, breath coming in shaken gasps, fumble with his good arm to push himself up as the tremors wrack through him.

Zell's there before I can move, catching Squall around the waist and lifting him in one easy movement, Squall's good arm looped around his shoulders. Their heights make it awkward, but Zell's eyes meet mine and we're in wordless agreement. Zell has strength enough for it, awkward or no, and my thumb is already pulling back the hammer of my shotgun, the trigger primed and ready beneath my fingers. 'Outside' may be a ways away, but we're fucking going to make it.

"...'blade..." Squall's eyes are open but I doubt he's seeing much. His pupils are huge in the dim light.

"Don't worry. I've got it." His gunblade is heavier than my gun, the grip strange in my hand. I check the chamber to be sure it's loaded, then check the sight down the back of the blade. I may not be able to use a sword worth shit, but if it has a trigger then I can damn well shoot it.

It's not fast, not with Squall's steps faltering and my nerves racked so tight I'm ready to shoot the shadows of faded pictures on the walls. But it's motion, and Zell's got it right - motion keeps the darkness at bay. Motion keeps the spark alive.

Down the stairs, into the corridor; I'm mapping it out in my head, retracing our path like rolling up a guide string while the silence dogs our steps. Somewhere in the dimness of the hall Zell's voice behind me breaks the quiet, swearing, and I whip around with both guns ready.

Nothing. No one. Only Zell, lowering a limp Squall to the faded, dusty carpet, fingers checking for a pulse. After a tense moment Zell raises his head, blowing out a puff of a sigh. "Unconscious."

I relax, just a little. "Can you carry him?"

"Hell, yes," Zell hisses, action already suited to thought. A little grunt of effort as he stands, Squall's body draped across one shoulder, is his only concession to fatigue. Blood from limp, dangling fingertips drips down to splash across the back of Zell's calf.

"How much further?" His voice is low, the words quick, and there's worry darkening the electric blue of his eyes.

I think, trying to mentally trace turns and doorways when they all look so much alike. "We'll make it," I tell him firmly.

"I know." It's all he says, the words bitten short, but behind it I can hear the echo of the fear - we'll make it, but Squall's life is draining away in a trail of red droplets behind us.

It isn't conscious. I let go the death grip on handle and trigger, passing Squall's gunblade to my other side to tuck it beneath my elbow. For one minute, my own hands hampered, Zell's holding onto Squall, it leaves us defenseless.

Zell's cheek is cool beneath my fingertips, the breath on his lips damp and warm. It's a brief thing, only the ghost of memory; my hand drops to his and beneath our combined touch Squall is still and silent, but solid. Real, and the shadow of breath still moves in him.

"We'll make it," I repeat.

Zell nods, sharply, just once. "Get us the hell out of here, Irvine," he tells me. His voice is tight, tense, but the echo of determination is there once more.

I'm already moving, the guns back in my hands and something maybe just a bit like a smile on my lips. "Come on. We'll make our own fucking luck."


	8. In the Trenches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irvine and Squall have a little talk about priorities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes:** Right before the final battle with Ultimecia.

"Squall, will you go lay down?"

The reply was short and to the point, the words - any words - tasting like chalk in a mouth and throat long since gone dry. "Someone needs to keep watch."

Quistis sighed. Slim hands gathered up the loose fall of her hair, twisting the mass with the ease of practice and doubling it back, the clasp clicking quietly into place as she secured it. "Which is what I'm going to do," she pointed out, patting the whip coiled at her belt. "_You_ need rest. Go lay down."

Bossy. Some glimmer of memory rose from the depths of fatigue, bursting randomly across his mind. She had always been bossy, instructor or no. "You..."

"Haven't had nearly as hard a time of it as you have." She cut him off, her frown daring him to contradict her. It wasn't just domineering; there was concern in her eyes. "Squall... even Zell laid down, and you know how he is. Just get some rest. If anything comes along that I can't handle, I'll yell."

Fatigue was probably the only thing keeping him upright. It was easier to stay where he was, the wall a solid comforting presence against his back, than to move. Even if moving meant laying down. Which was a deplorable way of keeping watch - staring outwards just because he didn't have the energy to blink properly. The shadows in the long hall seemed to shift when he wasn't looking, dancing just out of sight in the corners of his eyes.

"Just for an hour," he told her firmly. He couldn't afford the sleep he needed. It was better to keep going than to stop, the snatched moments of interrupted half sleep seeming worse than none at all.

Quistis didn't argue. "An hour," she repeated. She settled into the spot beside him, sinking down to the floor, the edged length of her whip set beside her feet.

Squall suppressed a groan as he pushed himself away from the wall and forced his feet to take his full weight once more. "You'll wake me?"

Quistis nodded wordlessly, waving him on before she leaned forward to loop her arms around her raised knees, fingers sliding restlessly along the coils of whip. It was cool and damp beneath the stone shadows and there were chill rashes dotting her pale skin.

Squall hesitated, then shrugged out of his jacket. The leather was worn and tattered but the lining, where it rested against his skin, was warm. He slid it around her shoulders, only shrugging slightly at her startled glance up. "If anything happens..."

Quistis smiled. "I'll wake you. Promise."

He said nothing, just nodded. Words took too much energy. Everything did.

The alcove they had stopped to rest in was quiet, filled only with the soft sound of lungs and breathe and sleep. Rinoa was closest to the entrance; she had taken off her outer sweater and bundled it under her head, curled on one side on the floor, fast asleep. She looked like a child, pale face brushed with strands of hair in the dark, one hand tucked beneath her cheek.

Squall stood and watched her for a moment, counting breaths and noting all the little motions she made in her dreams. Too tired, too worn; it was showing in the shadows under her eyes and the hollows of her cheeks, like the mark of a long illness that breaks the body under its fever. She hadn't said anything, not a word of complaint, and she had kept their speed and fought along side them to the best of her abilities. He had seen the power burning in her eyes but each time they stopped to rest she seemed a little hollower, more worn and strained, her face pinched, as though the power leeched away her strength and ate at her from inside.

She wasn't SeeD. She shouldn't have been there. He couldn't think of a single damn way it could have been done different, couldn't trace out any route that wouldn't have brought her with them, but somehow she should have been taken safely somewhere else.

But there she was. They would keep going. They had to. He could only hope that whatever rest Rinoa might be able to get would be enough, and that he could keep her safe in what was to come. She slept deep and soundless, trusting, never stirring as he stepped around her into the heavier shadows at the back of the alcove.

Irvine was sprawled out across the floor by the wall, his hat draped over his face. His shotgun rested at his side, one hand on the handle even in sleep, finger never more than an inch from the trigger. His coat was bunched in folds at his other side; as Squall stepped closer he realized it was draped over another body curled up next to the sharp shooter. Selphie, he guessed.

Irvine's stirred as Squall walked by, gun hand lifting lazily. Tipping his hat back from his eyes, he made a shushing gesture, finger pressed to his lips, then pointed to his companion. Squall nodded wearily, dropping down to lean his back against the wall and sighing softly as he stretched out legs that felt cramped and leaden.

"'bout time," Irvine whispered softly. "Told Quisty she'd have to use a sleep spell on you."

Squall closed his eyes, leaning his head back. The wall was hard stone, cold against his shoulders, but just the act of sitting was a luxury. "No," he muttered. Taking a breath, he roused himself a little. "Selphie been asleep long?" The brunette had been more tired than she wanted to show, slim shoulders slumped as she leaned against a wall when he'd last seen her.

Irvine pointed past Squall. "Out like a light the minute she sat down. Don't think she'd wake up if a quake hit."

Startled, Squall followed the other man's gesture. Selphie was there, half hidden in the shadows, her slim body curled around the small carved figure of a snarling lion. Her arms were crossed across its stone sculpted back, her head pillowed in the crook of one elbow as she slept.

The demand for sleep was making his thoughts slow and distant. Squall glanced back at the other man and the figure beside him. "Then who..."

His voice must have been louder than he'd meant to make it. "Shhhh," Irvine hushed. "Took forever to get him to go to sleep."

Zell. Squall rubbed at his eyes, trying to erase the burn in them. "Is he alright?" The martial artist had been favoring one hand by the time they had stopped to rest and try to regroup, but he had insisted nothing was wrong.

Irvine grimaced. "Broke his wrist. We got it fixed up." He inclined his head slightly, indicating Squall's far side. "Your arm?"

Squall flexed his fingers, clenching a fist. The healed scars were still a deep pink against his skin, streaking in long jagged lines from shoulder to wrist. "Aches."

Irvine sighed. "Seems like nothing works quite right in this fucking place."

"We're lucky it works at all," Squall pointed out. Irvine waved his hand in silent acknowledgment.

Stillness again and Squall let his eyes close. But despite it all, sleep was elusive - the silence was too silent, oppressively so, and nerves too long wound tight would not relax their vigilence. Sighing softly, he opened his eyes. Irvine had slid his hat back down, the brim covering his face, but Squall doubted the other man was any more asleep than he himself was.

"You scared too?" His own whisper, the words coming to him unbidden, slipped into the darkness like the furtive secrets shared between the beds of small boys after the lights had gone out. Memory and present, shifting and blurring, and only after he had said them did Squall recognize their source; Seifer's words from that day so long ago, spoken there on the Balamb docks and echoed now on his own tongue.

"Hell yes." Irvine's voice was equally low, but the edge in it was audible. "Have to be stupid not to be."

Squall could hear his own heartbeats in the silence, ticking away seconds that no longer existed in a realm without time. Tired thoughts twisted around each other and he wondered, idylly, if it was all the same heartbeat, repeated over and over, endlessly looping, his body unable to tell the difference between one moment and the next. In the eternal gloom he couldn't pick out the details of Rinoa's curled form from where he sat.

"Do you think we'll make it?" Irvine whispered.

If he reached down he could trace the cracks and bumps in the stone floor through the thin leather of his gloves, the surface cold even through clothing. "Does it matter? We don't have a choice."

Irvine reached up again to tip his hat back slightly, the look in his dark eyes unreadable. "There's optimism for you."

"What I think won't change anything," Squall said flatly. "We fight because we have to. We're SeeD."

The other man was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was thin and soft in the darkness, meant only for the two of them. "Rinoa's not."

Squall shut his mouth, lips pressed tight and rigid.

The silence stretched outwards, a wordless answer that made Irvine nod. "That's what I thought."

Stung, Squall looked away. "What about Selphie?" he asked harshly.

Irvine's low chuckle answered him. "If you think Sefie can't take care of herself in a pinch, you're severely underestimating her."

Glancing back at the other man was like a moment of disorientation, pieces of a puzzle he hadn't know he was putting together abruptly sliding into place to reveal the hidden picture. It was there, he realized, for anyone to see if they were looking; there in the barely visible shock of pale hair that was pillowed on Irvine's casually outstretched bare arm and in the draped folds of the sharp shooter's coat across another's body. He just hadn't ever thought to look. He hadn't wanted to. Taking a breath, Squall shook his head, his voice barely exhaled. "And Zell?"

Irvine's eyes met his sharply, the other man's ghost of a smile shadowed. "Zell was carrying _your_ sorry ass out of here earlier. I don't think either one of us needs to worry about _him_."

It was like a dream, the words, the specific phrasing of them and the emphasis Irvine placed on them, taking a moment to sort themselves into sense within his mind. The answer he found there was sour to the taste, even as it called up faded memories of the sparkle of champagne and distant music and sea salt and the bitter tang of fear. "He told you." The words were flat in Squall's mouth, not really a question. Irvine just nodded and Squall looked away, elbows hugged tight to his ribs. "It was nothing."

More silence, but he could feel the sharp shooter's eyes on him. "You know, Leonhart," Irvine said at last, his quiet voice conversational, "you're a good card player. But you're a fucking awful liar."

"You don't know..."

"Anything?" The other man cut him off, voice blunt. "I'm starting to think I know a hell of alot more about it all than you do. You're a real anti-social piece of work, you know that?"

Words had never been his weapon of choice; uncomfortable with them, unable to find a rebuttal, his normal response was stony faced silence. But there, in the dark and the quiet, he found the angry words came easier, driven and fueled by the tight ache that seemed to settle in his stomach. "Fuck you. You _don't_ know anything. You weren't there, Irvine. It's between me and him..."

"And Rinoa?" Irvine asked sweetly.

"Leave her the fuck out of this," Squall snapped hoarsely, struggling to keep his voice low. "Rinoa's different."

"How?"

The single question, quiet and serious, brought him up short. The rush of words failed him, stuck against the tightness of his throat. Fumbling, unsure why he was even bothering, he tried to put something into sentences. Something about the vibrant life found in a pair of eyes looking up into his or the warmth and energy in a teasing smile. Something about a caring so utterly different from what he expected to find.

But Irvine was staring at him, waiting, his expression sober, and Squall could almost hear the other man's answer as though it had already been spoken - 'but what makes her _different_?'

"She needs me," Squall said, the words thick and heavy in his mouth. "Rinoa _needs_ me."

"Is that what you want?" Quiet and low and putting into audible form all of the things he had avoided asking himself. His teeth were clenched so tightly that they ached.

"Yes." Silence echoing inside of him, cold and bitter, the truth coming slow and reluctant to his tongue. "Maybe."

"She's a nice girl," Irvine said softly. "Kind, caring. Loyal. Brave. The perfect princess for a protective knight. It's the role she was born to play."

There was nothing mocking or offensive in his voice and Squall exhaled, feeling the edge of the tension inside of him slowly defuse. "I know."

Irvine took a few moments to respond and when he did it was in a forced, distant tone. "It's your choice."

Squall glanced sideways to where Zell, shifting in his sleep, had pillowed one cheek firmly on Irvine's arm, a gloved hand laying across the sharp shooter's wrist. "Doesn't look that way from here," he pointed out flatly.

"Which just goes to prove you really are that blind, if you believe that for a minute," Irvine said bluntly.

A hard breath hissed out between Squall's teeth. "Are you trying to pick a fight?"

"No." Irvine sighed softly. "Look, I'm trying to shine a light on your dim head, though Hyne knows why I'm bothering. You're going to be one of those that goes down in the history books, and they'll be talking about how courageous you are. You're not. You're just stubborn and you don't know how to quit. But that inspires people. You're our best fucking chance, and we all know it. It gives _us_," he tapped a finger against his own chest, "the hope we need to keep going."

Squall shivered. The words were like weights, each one piling atop the other, heavy and hard against him. "What are you trying to say?" he demanded.

"Nothing..." Irvine replied. Squall could just see the curve of the other man's wry smile. "Love, friendship and courage, Squall. That's all we've got."

Loire's words. "Don't quote that idiot at me," he snapped.

"You think that's bad?" Irvine shook his head, the motion small. "You haven't sat in the same room as Selphie for an hour."

Squall dropped his head back, the wall cold and hard behind him. "What does this have to do with Zell? You're not making any sense."

"Probably not," Irvine agreed mildly, the words punctuated with a yawn. "Look, Squall... you may be stubborn, but Zell is loyal. And you had his friendship long before I did." Dark eyes peered up at him, half closed, the sharpshooter's expression closed. "What you do with that is up to you."

The shadows bred cool, musty air, unstirred for ages. It clung damply to his lungs, his chest tight and uncomfortable. "Rinoa needs me," he repeated slowly.

Irvine said nothing for a long moment. "That your final answer?" he asked softly.

"Dammit, Kinneas..." Squall hissed. He sat up, pushing away from the wall, half twisting on one knee to face Irvine. "Don't you get it? Rinoa _needs_ me. She's _not_ one of us, she's _not_ prepared for this, she's in over her head... I fucking promised her I'd see her through this, and I keep my promises!"

Irvine hushed him sharply. "Alright," he whispered. "Alright. You owe that to her. But if we do make it through this? Try to think beyond the next fight, Squall. If we do this, if we win - what then?"

Squall ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the loose strands. "I don't know," he admitted slowly. "I can't think that far, Irvine. This isn't the place for dreams; I have to be here, _now_."

"Stubborn," the other man accused.

"Maybe," Squall replied tiredly. "Maybe I'm just realistic." An arm's reach away, on Irvine's other side, Zell slept on. Squall wrapped his arms around his chest, feeling the chill. "Right now, I have to make sure Rinoa makes it out of here. I have to keep her safe."

He let out a slow breath. When he reached forward Irvine's hand came up - not stopping him, but a clear warning. He met the other man's gaze, then reached past him; hair the color of sunlight was soft beneath his fingertips, the details lost through the worn leather of his gloves. He had seen every type of blood splashed across that hair and over that skin. Zell stirred slightly as he brushed the dark shadow of the tattoo on the sleeping man's cheek and Squall stilled, drawing back.

Irvine's eyes were still on him. Squall faced him squarely, reaching out to wrap his fingers around the sharpshooter's wrist in a fierce grip. "_You_," he rasped, "keep him fucking safe. You hear me, Kinneas? I don't care how you do it - you make sure he gets out of here. You make _sure_."

He expected an argument but Irvine only nodded, once, expression somber. "You have my word," he said quietly. "If we do make it..."

"_If_ we make it, than there'll be time to sort it out then," Squall snapped. "Right now..." He swallowed, finding the words in his throat rough. "You just keep Zell safe. I _have_ to take care of Rinoa... and I can't be two places at once."

"You do what you have to," Irvine told him. "I'll take care of my part." The wry smile returned as he twisted his wrist loose. "I would have done it anyways. Lay down, Squall. Get some sleep. When this is over..." he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, his eyes drifting to where Zell lay against his arm. "We'll see. Then."

It was a promise, both good and ill. Squall nodded once, sharply, sinking back down once more. Irvine fell silent, even the remembered echo of their words dampened and stilled by the heavy shadows. Laying down, eyes open to the darkness, it was a long time before Squall slept.


	9. Courage, Friendship, and...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where - and when - is home?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes:** Time Compression.

Ask me about time compression. Go ahead. _Ask_ me. I'll tell you. If you're an adrenaline junky, you would have loved it - better than the best damn roller coaster you've ever been on. Me? I like my feet on the ground and the ground to be solid. I just wanted _off_.

I don't remember saving the fucking world. I remember light, and heat, and a whole world of hurt. And falling. Fuck. Free fall through heart warm water filled with the brush of wings and half remembered things and images flashed like nightmares across the backs of my eyelids. The human mind is not damn well meant to do that, if you ask me. Time and memory, past, present, future; we fell through it all and I couldn't tell you even half of what I saw.

We touched each other, closer than babes in the womb, in some sort of language we'll never duplicate, not by speech or touch or any human means. I knew them, I could feel them - Selphie, her memories tinged with the warm exuberance of her personality; Quistis, cool and clear as a mountain runoff stream. Squall was sharp and distant, Rinoa warm, and Zell like a flash fire, the flickering spark of electricity. I wondered what I felt like to them. I reached out as we fell and I brushed them all - hopes, fears, dreams, memories, a cacophony of images and sensations spread out under my grasping fingertips like glistening bubbles. I was Selphie in the winter, snow fairies falling in a dance from the slate gray sky. I was Zell, laughing beneath the sun in the salt spray of the beach. I was Rinoa, swept up in a dance, smiling up into bright green eyes... I was Quistis; the feel of a kiss, soft lips... I was Squall...

And then we broke through the bubbles and fell into nothingness.

Light. Grey. Featureless. No up, no down, after images flickering at the corner of your eyes like thousands of ghosts. But we weren't falling and I could feel the others, like hands clasped in the darkness, almost voices. "Is it over?" I called, and my own voice was lost in the light, deaf in my own damn ears. "We have to go back!"

For one moment I could hear nothing but my own heart, fast and frantic, and then their voices came floating back to me in bits and snatches, drifting. "Careful, guys!" "Don't fall..." "Pick... time..." "..think where we have to go..."

No. No, not "where". _When_. We needed a when. We needed to choose. The voices of the others faded away, spiraling off, and frantic became real panic as I grasped for something to take me back where I belonged. Home. I needed to go _home_, but the images slipped through my mind like sand through my fingers, flashing past too fast to fasten upon. Orphanage, beach, sand, waves, fields, plains, Garden, Galbadia, no, too far back, don't leave me here, don't fucking leave me here! Where... when... I reached out to the others, grasping, feeling my own memories, the things I had prized most, slipping away from me to leave me with only the empty unformed nothingness all around.

Familiar eyes, familiar faces - _oh Hyne, they don't remember, why don't they remember?_ \- stock of a rifle against my shoulder, trigger under my finger, bright lights, the pound of drums - _no, please gods, don't make me do this, I can't_ \- flare of cure, heat of magic, the high as it streams from your fingertips - _the price we pay, losing ourselves, casualty of the war, will I even know when they're gone?_ \- adrenaline, sharp and hot, motions in perfect rhythm, swing, punch, aim, fire, reload, three bodies, one fight, perfect unison - _beautiful, so fucking beautiful, get up damn you, live, together, we do this **together**..._

Close. So close. I needed a ground, an anchor, anything... oh Hyne... where is 'home'?

_Don't leave me here!_

"It's all about love and friendship. And having the courage to do it!"

_Oh gods, don't leave me..._

"...love, friendship and courage..."

_Please..._

"...friendship and courage..."

_Selphie! Quistis! Squall! Take me with you... flashes, too fast, here and gone, no, don't leave me... falling... plains, beach, too far back, too far forward..._

"Love, friendship..."

_reaching, grasping, anything..._ Lips under mine, the dark taste of earth and velvet unknown, sharp tang of thunder, lightning and the storm, sparks in crystal blue eyes...

...Zell...

"For luck."

The world turned inside out and took me with it. Falling, nothingness, lost, alone, plummeting down with the wind in my ears and stinging at my eyes. Everything, everywhere, nowhere, nothing, all at once and never again and... and...

"Reflect on your sensations... your words... your emotions..."

...Love...

...and the world turned itself right side out again.

Ground under me, sky over me, fresh air in my lungs. It was all I could feel for long moments and it was more than enough. Real. Reality. Solid. Thank Hyne.

The details came more slowly. Shifting ground... sand. Sand under my shoulders and the sound ringing in my ears was water, the rush and shushed slide of waves on a beach. Sand, water, beach, clear sky shading into afternoon above my aching eyes... where?

"Irvine!"

I was struggling up onto my elbows when he dropped down beside me, his steps digging up sprays of sand. Gloved hands caught me, tight and hard, and the blue of the sky was replaced by bright blue eyes. "Irvine! You all right?"

I coughed out some sort of affirmative noise before I could really think about it and his voice was relieved. "Oh, thank Hyne..." The slick fabric of his jacket was under my grasping fingertips and then, before I could draw breath or gather up all of the pieces of myself that felt out of place, his lips came crushing down on mine.

It was just like I remembered, just like the first time. _Better_ than the first time. The taste of him, the feel of him, lightning and sparks on his tongue...

This...

He broke away, eyes bright and grinning broadly. "We made it!" he caroled, and the fire of life was in his voice and breath. Pulling back, he pointed to something over my head that I had to lean too far back to see. "Matron's house, the orphanage..." He let out an excited yell, fist punching the bright sky above. "We fucking MADE IT!"

Our time, our place... home... _him_...

Zell scrambled to his feet, his laughter ringing loud and clear. I could only drop back to the sand, soaking in the feel of the earth beneath me and the sky above. This... this was where I belonged. This is what had brought me back.

I closed my eyes and stretched my arms wide, my own laughter joining Zell's in pure, unashamed relief.


	10. Stand Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Game over, war finished, except it's never quite so easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes:** End of game, at the victory celebration.

You know that feeling, when you're coming down off an adrenaline high? The cold sweats and the fluttery heart and the hot rush, all giving way to the afterward shakes?

Take that, and magnify it by a factor of ten. Or a hundred. Because we'd been on that adrenaline high for _weeks_.

I tell you, if Sir Cid hadn't broken out bottles of stuff that was harder than champagne during that little congratulatory pat on the back party, we'd all have been basket cases. It was like a floodgate bursting, and I saw it in all of our eyes one after another that night as the realization hit - I'm sitting down. I'm sitting down, not rushing around... and that's _okay_.

Because I don't have anywhere to go. I don't have anything I have to do. My gun is not across my back, even though I can still feel the phantom weight from spending every waking and sleeping moment of the last weeks with that holster strapped on. I don't have to have a precise tally of every bullet and shell that I own, or every damn spell knocking around the back of my head. There is nothing attacking me. I'm not attacking anything. I'm sitting down, in a real chair, with real food...

...it was about that point when I abandoned the hor'deurves and champagne to go find something stronger. My nerves had been strung tight for so long I had no fucking idea what to do with myself when they didn't need to be.

I only meant to have one shot glass, but the realization that I'd be sleeping that night in a real honest to god Garden issue bed prompted me to chase it down with a matching sibling. The idea of having actual coffee in the morning, and breakfast, all made by someone else, forced me to down shot number three and the passing thought that I could requisition both clean clothes and a toothbrush from stores made me give up and just snag the whole damn bottle. Fuck it.

Oh, we had fun that night. Don't get me wrong. Food, friends, alcohol, music, cameras, high spirits - we had lots of fun. But one by one, as the evening wore on, those little realizations caught up to us. I found Quistis tucked in at a table in a shadowy corner with a friend, nursing a bottle of brandy between them. Selphie flitted from one place to another, restless as a butterfly on amphetamines, her mouth going a mile a minute with no connection to her brain. Squall and Rinoa had pulled a vanishing act earlier, though we'd glimpsed them out on the balcony, and I didn't know what the fuck to think about that. Too much to think all at once. Overload. Hyne.

We'd been through hell. Straight through hell, and back out again. Now what? Hyne, I'd only gotten SeeD rank earlier that afternoon, handed to me along with a medal - gods, that was a jolt. Oh yeah, I never did take the fucking field test, did I? Imagine that. Guess taking down a sorceress covered any class credits I was missing, because there it was - diploma and SeeD rank report, right along with the shiny pin for service above and beyond duty. Get me, I'm official.

What the fuck were we supposed to do _now_? How the hell was I supposed to sleep without a gun damn near glued to my hand? And no bets on whether I'd blow the alarm clean through the wall the first time it went off in the morning. Hell, I'd blow a fucking piece of dust away if made any kind of noise.

What the hell do people _do_ when they're not chasing all over the fucking planet fighting for their damn lives? A few weeks before I'd have laughed at the idea of doing that. Now, I couldn't remember what I used to do on days off. Or even just normal class days.

Eventually I ended up looking for some nice, quiet, out of the way place where I could sit and hopefully pour enough whiskey down my throat to make sleep a possibility. Which is where I found out Quisty and I weren't the only ones with that idea.

He was tucked into one of the window casings, hip and one foot resting on the sill, a dark brown bottle dangling from his fingertips. His _bare_ fingertips, and I think that hit me more than the incongruity of him being still or quiet - bare hands, pale in the dim light, uncovered by leather or metal. I'd seen his hands ungloved before, for a quick wash, or to set a bone, heal a cut, whatever... but never like this. Never bare just because there's no reason whatsoever to have his gloves on. Without them, he was as unarmed as I was.

Well... no. Not really. Zell can kill barehanded as easily as he can with combat gloves. Bare feet, too, for that matter. The only time he's ever really unarmed is if he's out cold. But the symbolism was there, and unnerving.

Look. Crisis finished. Game over. Stand down, the war is done. We can go back to being _people_ instead of soldiers.

Zell moved his foot without a word, letting me lean opposite him. "Do you realize," he said, conversationally, his eyes watching the moonlight on the waves outside, "that we get to sleep in tomorrow?"

I took a real moment to think about that. Sleep in. Until noon, if I wanted to, or even later. Unbroken _sleep_, as much as my body could handle, enough to chase away the fatigue that had been hounding me for so many days I'd forgotten what real sleep was.

I thought about it, and then I downed another good sized gulp from the bottle I'd been carrying around. Zell laughed, soft and tired and a little bit ragged, and did the same from whatever he was drinking and we sat together and looked out the window as the world slowly spun by. The light of the Garden's grav ring flickered by at slow, lazy intervals, bright against the black curve of tattoo on Zell's cheek.

It would be really fucking easy to blame what I did then on the alcohol. On too much whiskey and too much nerves, on an overload of adrenaline and stress and the body's natural reaction to mortal danger. There's a shitload of things I could blame it on.

Know what? I'm not going to. I did it because I _wanted_ to - because I'd been wanting to, because the chance was there, he was there, and because kissing him is a fucking addiction. Because he tasted so damn good, and he felt good, and maybe, yes, because I _was_ just drunk enough that I didn't care if he hauled off and broke my jaw for it.

He didn't. He opened his mouth and it was tequila he'd been drinking, sharp and sour on his tongue, and I could have just crawled right into his lap and glued myself there, with his mouth hot and wet under mine and the tiny noises in his throat and those impossible bare hands tangled in my hair.

I hadn't really thought it out. At all, and his mouth chased any thought I might have had clean out of my head. When we broke I was gasping and his eyes had turned a sort of cloudy blue that made me vaguely wonder if I might get a few bones broken yet. "Irvine..."

I had to hastily shush him and the words came on their own, falling easy off my tongue. "Look, Zell... Isn't a marriage proposal, okay? Just... if you want to... tonight..."

He took a moment to think about it and then his hands were back in my hair, tugging me down, and I swear to gods his kisses just got better each time around. "Fuck, yes," he gasped, and neither of us cared if it was a really bad pun or not. His hands were working up under my vest, hot on my ribs, and I somehow fumbled the mostly empty bottles onto the windowsill while sliding us off of it, all without taking my mouth off of his.

Let's face it - there are _much_ better ways to sleep then giving yourself a fucking hangover.


	11. Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few realizations early in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes:** After game.

He's beautiful when he sleeps.

He doesn't sprawl out - I'd half expected him to. But he's a compact sleeper, curled on his side with his limbs tucked in neatly. Not tense, though; he relaxes in sleep and even those wisps of hair, too short to be easily slicked back like the rest and too long to stay out of his eyes, have come loose to trail in rumpled strands of gold across his forehead.

I labeled him 'cute', once. I was wrong, and I can admit it. He's fucking gorgeous.

It's amazing how many of a man's illusions can be proven and broken just in one night, cataloged one by one as the morning creeps in.

He _is_ a screamer. He's learned to muffle it - against the pillows, against the blankets, against my shoulder and I've got the teeth marks in my skin to prove it. He apologized for it later but frankly, I wasn't complaining.

And he's not just a good kisser. If I was a less scrupulous man I think I'd start carrying lollipops around in my pockets because odds are if you offered him one he'd pop it straight into his mouth - and watching him eat something like that would be a floor show that a man ought to pay money for. He's oral as all hell and anyone who's made jokes about that has _not_ been on the receiving end. I guarantee it.

His hands are as strong as you'd expect. From head to toe he's all muscle, compact and smooth. his palms and fingers are calloused oddly and I finally had to ask - he said it's from the padding inside his gloves.

He's a complete sucker for a massage, sprawled out boneless on his stomach and purring like a cat.

He's as generous in bed as is he anywhere else.

He doesn't take up the space, but he does kick the covers off. His tan lines are damn near indecent. Black ink on golden skin would be an easy fetish to fall into - the arc across his brow and cheek isn't the only one and the black knot nestled in the curve of his lower back is just the size of my outstretched hand, triangular and oddly sweeping, like the stylized wings of a bird.

There's two matching dimples there, right at the base of his spine.

He tastes like spring thunderstorms and citrus fruits, fresh and bright across the tongue, with lightning like the sweet tang of alcohol on his lips. He smells like mint and cool shade and the spray of sea salt on a hot day.

He's ticklish as all hell and if it involves his ribs all bets are off.

He's easy - not in a derogatory way, mind you, but _comfortable_ easy, easy to be with. With him it's not awkward or stilted or fumbling. It just is, and he's relaxed about it.

He's a tease only as long as its fun for everybody, and once he's done teasing he delivers.

He snores, just a little, tiny puffs of air through a half open mouth with one hand tucked beneath his cheek.

There's a whole list of things that I know this morning that I didn't know yesterday. And now, when I can think again, there's a certain someone I can name who should know all of it, but doesn't, and maybe that's just his loss and my gain.

Right?

Fuck that.

Because I know a few other things as well. I know Zell's eyes close when he comes and his head falls back. I know that he's a screamer right up until the end, when his breath gives out and he's too caught up in it to make another sound and his mouth is open and gasping and the noises he does make are pure sex.

And I know who's name was on his lips... and it wasn't mine.

He doesn't even know he did it, but I do. Maybe it shouldn't matter - after all, _I'm_ the one who's laying in bed beside him, and that's what counts, right?

And maybe the chronometer set in the wall isn't flashing some obscene hour of the morning while I lay here and think about it.

You know, if I just didn't give a shit this would be a hell of a lot easier. I wouldn't be awake. I wouldn't be thinking about it. I definitely wouldn't be sliding out of a warm bed with a willing body in it to find a pair of jeans and a hair tie.

But when I'm walking down the corridor in my bare feet at 0300 in the morning to pound on the door of someone who isn't going to want to hear what I damn well want to talk to him about... well, maybe it's time to add another item to the list of 24hour truths of the last day. Maybe I do give a shit. Maybe I give a hell of a lot more of one than I ought to.


End file.
